I’m pretty sure nothing I do is right. And I’m pretty sure in the end, everyone will grow to hate me.
It makes sense. I knew there was something wrong with me. And I can pretend like there’s not, like I’m just weird like everybody else is…but I don’t know. There’s something blocking me from the rest of the world. I can’t pinpoint it, but I can feel it.
I don’t want to be the last person someone thinks of. I don’t want to be just another person. I want to mean something. And I don’t really think I do. I don’t think I mean very much to some people.
They always tell you that if you love yourself, and believe in yourself, then that’s enough. Is it really? Because it doesn’t feel like it. Believe it or not, we do need each other. We need other people. We need humanity to acknowledge our existence. Because without acknowledgement, are we really even there?
I used my behaviors as punishment. I treat myself like shit because that’s what I am. I would tell myself over and over not to believe the lies that “I’m good enough”, or “I matter”. It doesn’t make up for anything. My past will always live inside me. I can forget all the good memories, but the old demons are there to stay.
And that’s actually how it is. My brain doesn’t remember good times. It doesn’t remember sitting at the ice cream shop down the street with my dad and brother. It doesn’t remember going to Ireland with my dad and all my siblings. It doesn’t remember the love.
It remembers the shit. It remembers the screams. It remembers the terror.
Why is that?
My body remembers how it felt. Not just emotionally, but physically. The pain that rocks me to my core. And it comes back up. And it comes back up. And it comes back up.
Good days, bad days, and whatever in between. Sometimes I don’t hate myself this much. Tonight I do.
-June 1, 2017