It gets bad when the inside of my mouth bleeds. That's how I know I have unresolved issues, but being so efficient at brushing things off, I am often unaware of the fact that anything is even troubling to me until I my anxiety manifests itself in a physical way.
I am of the 'ignore it and it will go away' school of thought. Among my advocates are procrastinators, suppressors, sluggards, sloths and all-around lazy bastards. My contenders consist of go-getters, self-starters, highly motivated class president types and those who refer to people like myself as a 'waste of talent.'
It gets really exhausting, being this lazy. Even though I deemed 2008 'the year of art,' I've yet to pull myself from this creative void I'm in. I think if I truly wanted a way out, I might look for one rather than wasting away in the dark.
There's a lot I like to blame on January. The very word makes the hair on my arms stand up, indicating that if I weren't so complacent, I could increase my body temperature by moving around. Instead, I am reminded of all the extra sleep I get this time of year, when I'm busy making every effort to avoid all resolutions.
Highly ambitious people have always told me that if they had my ability, they would be marketing it and making millions. Then, they shake their heads and throw their hands in the air, as if they have any idea what it is like to be out of ideas, or how it feels to hate every second of my existence not spent pushing for greatness. Everyone has the special ability to recognize potential, but I don't think everyone knows how low life can feel in the aftermath of achievement - when all the volatile glory fades and there is nothing to be excited about.
My feet were asleep from sitting on them so long and I was hastily picking bald spots in the carpet and biting the insides of my mouth - anything to avoid crying. He tried to make eye contact, so I clenched my jaw harder, my back molars tearing impressions into the skin inside my cheeks, causing them to bleed salty blood; then I raised my eyebrows, hoping that if I kept my eyes open long enough, any bits of moisture daring to escape my tear ducts would evaporate before they could materialize.
When he paused from his condescending blah-blah-blahs, my ears began ringing and I realized that if I didn't scream, my eardrums might explode. Just as I jolted forward and flung open my mouth, the temperature in my face rose above boiling point and I began choking in ridiculous, asthmatic gasps of air between sobs. "Do," (sob) "you," (gasp) "think" (sob) "I - I - I," (choke, sob, gasp) "like being this way?"
It wasn't our first conversation like this. He then gave me that look he's so famous for (the one that says, 'you are pathetic'), and softened his voice to a whisper. "So, change." If he were ever any example of the love I want, it was then. Disappointed in this child who could do better, his eyes grew red and he became overwhelmed with compassion, wanting nothing more than to welcome me into his arms.
But when he held me, I didn't hold him back. When he offered his love, I refused it. And now, thinking of all the times I allowed my pride to harden me, I feel not only ashamed but more worthless than before.
I could do better. I could be better. But I've locked myself in my bedroom to sulk and when I don't come out for dinner, I'll somehow think I'm proving a point.
Someone said I was normal. Someone said everyone experiences this, as if my laziness and self-loathing are not unique to me. Someone else told me I was crazy. He said I'll never be like normal people, and for as many times as I've screwed up, I don't deserve any more chances. Still another voice said all of the above. That voice said that abnormal IS normal, that failure is not absolute, that living is about dying and perseverance though my mania is the only thing that will redeem me.
There was hope in the latter answer. There was something so soft about his stern words: "you are running away," and hope that if I stopped running and tried making peace with my current state, I might be able to write a song again.
We got these bracelets at the county fair - silly, cheap things, given to us by some old man at a philanthropy booth with a ridiculously soft voice. We struggled to hear what he was saying, but it didn't matter, since we knew what he meant. There is a reason I still wear mine.
When the inside of my mouth bleeds, it's because I've been chewing on it. When I chew the inside of my mouth, it's because I'm avoiding something. When I start to taste the blood, I realize it's gone too far - but that realization alone isn't enough to motivate me to change.
I took about ten ponytail holders off my wrists this morning before stepping into the shower, and then I realized I'm still wearing that bracelet. There is a reason I bear the name that I do. I think in my quest for open-mindedness and self-worth or fulfillment, I have let so many issues pile up that I've become ashamed of who I am.
"So, change," he said, and I wanted to contest; but I have no argument.
I am of the 'ignore it and it will go away' school of thought. Among my advocates are procrastinators, suppressors, sluggards, sloths and all-around lazy bastards. My contenders consist of go-getters, self-starters, highly motivated class president types and those who refer to people like myself as a 'waste of talent.'
It gets really exhausting, being this lazy. Even though I deemed 2008 'the year of art,' I've yet to pull myself from this creative void I'm in. I think if I truly wanted a way out, I might look for one rather than wasting away in the dark.
There's a lot I like to blame on January. The very word makes the hair on my arms stand up, indicating that if I weren't so complacent, I could increase my body temperature by moving around. Instead, I am reminded of all the extra sleep I get this time of year, when I'm busy making every effort to avoid all resolutions.
Highly ambitious people have always told me that if they had my ability, they would be marketing it and making millions. Then, they shake their heads and throw their hands in the air, as if they have any idea what it is like to be out of ideas, or how it feels to hate every second of my existence not spent pushing for greatness. Everyone has the special ability to recognize potential, but I don't think everyone knows how low life can feel in the aftermath of achievement - when all the volatile glory fades and there is nothing to be excited about.
My feet were asleep from sitting on them so long and I was hastily picking bald spots in the carpet and biting the insides of my mouth - anything to avoid crying. He tried to make eye contact, so I clenched my jaw harder, my back molars tearing impressions into the skin inside my cheeks, causing them to bleed salty blood; then I raised my eyebrows, hoping that if I kept my eyes open long enough, any bits of moisture daring to escape my tear ducts would evaporate before they could materialize.
When he paused from his condescending blah-blah-blahs, my ears began ringing and I realized that if I didn't scream, my eardrums might explode. Just as I jolted forward and flung open my mouth, the temperature in my face rose above boiling point and I began choking in ridiculous, asthmatic gasps of air between sobs. "Do," (sob) "you," (gasp) "think" (sob) "I - I - I," (choke, sob, gasp) "like being this way?"
It wasn't our first conversation like this. He then gave me that look he's so famous for (the one that says, 'you are pathetic'), and softened his voice to a whisper. "So, change." If he were ever any example of the love I want, it was then. Disappointed in this child who could do better, his eyes grew red and he became overwhelmed with compassion, wanting nothing more than to welcome me into his arms.
But when he held me, I didn't hold him back. When he offered his love, I refused it. And now, thinking of all the times I allowed my pride to harden me, I feel not only ashamed but more worthless than before.
I could do better. I could be better. But I've locked myself in my bedroom to sulk and when I don't come out for dinner, I'll somehow think I'm proving a point.
Someone said I was normal. Someone said everyone experiences this, as if my laziness and self-loathing are not unique to me. Someone else told me I was crazy. He said I'll never be like normal people, and for as many times as I've screwed up, I don't deserve any more chances. Still another voice said all of the above. That voice said that abnormal IS normal, that failure is not absolute, that living is about dying and perseverance though my mania is the only thing that will redeem me.
There was hope in the latter answer. There was something so soft about his stern words: "you are running away," and hope that if I stopped running and tried making peace with my current state, I might be able to write a song again.
We got these bracelets at the county fair - silly, cheap things, given to us by some old man at a philanthropy booth with a ridiculously soft voice. We struggled to hear what he was saying, but it didn't matter, since we knew what he meant. There is a reason I still wear mine.
When the inside of my mouth bleeds, it's because I've been chewing on it. When I chew the inside of my mouth, it's because I'm avoiding something. When I start to taste the blood, I realize it's gone too far - but that realization alone isn't enough to motivate me to change.
I took about ten ponytail holders off my wrists this morning before stepping into the shower, and then I realized I'm still wearing that bracelet. There is a reason I bear the name that I do. I think in my quest for open-mindedness and self-worth or fulfillment, I have let so many issues pile up that I've become ashamed of who I am.
"So, change," he said, and I wanted to contest; but I have no argument.
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