I collapsed completely inside. I finally gave in to my own doom. I let my thoughts wander aimlessly for hours, and I gave the demons complete control over my body and mind. I was unable to figure out how to work my way back up. I had the overwhelming urge to just give in to my own misery and let it consume me whole. I didn’t put up much of a fight. I caved into it, and that was the beginning of a yearlong period of self-inflicted torment on both my body and my spirit.
What took place is a mystery to me.
Perhaps it all started in October of 2020, when I made the decision to have surgery to repair a broken nose that had been sustained because of childhood abuse. It was extremely painful, and as a result, I ended up sinking into regret. After three months had passed, inflammation had spread throughout my body. I was unable to move my shoulders at all. I was restrained in a physical manner. I had reached my mental capacity’s limit.
I had to say goodbye to my brother, who had been my closest friend and confidant. In the tattered chaos that followed, there was no trace left of certain aspects of my existence. I felt helpless as I watched my family carry on without us. I started to feel very afraid. This is what happens after we have passed away. We are reduced to a vanishing mirage. We are no longer significant. Our relevance evaporates into occasional memories. It is impossible for us to reside within tears that do not even exist.
I considered escaping by floating away, but I couldn’t figure out how to do that. When I was younger, I had such a natural, unfiltered approach to life. My constant companion was my anxiety. This was lost to the ravages of time and age. I argued with myself about why I should even exist. My hands grew sluggish and fell asleep over the keyboard. My slate went blank. It was difficult for me to create.
In several different ways, my body betrayed me.
In response, I did not accept it. I crammed the pain down my throat and gave it the flavor of Rocky Road ice cream, doughy pizza, and sugar that had been left over from the weekend snacks that my grandchildren brought to my house. I gave in like a feeble skeleton to the agony’s every demand because it pretended to starve and begged for constant food.
I was wracked with remorse. I internalized every negative experience and self-deprecating decision that reflected how much havoc I’d wreaked on every life that my hands had ever touched and pinned them all on myself. Who had I turned into? A woman who is cynical and who refuses to let herself be touched or loved because she is trapped inside her own solitude. This was the punishment I deserved, and even when it was in my own hands, I was ignored and left to my own devices.
I continue to stand here, refusal acting as a weak link in the web, the final thread that keeps me attached to the support of my own existence. It is all interconnected, like some sick version of the game Red Rover, daring success to charge my gripping hands and rip them apart, thereby destroying the blocking of my own rise.
In my thoughts, there is a haunted cemetery full of specters. As I flail my arms to clear the haze left behind by their remnants, they mock and taunt me, whispering the lies that ultimately paralyze me. I have constructed stone walls around the areas of my body that were once exposed and vulnerable, and I have ensured that any gaps are adequately filled. Being transparent has never helped me gain relevance in any way.
Things are not as they were. I am different. My feelings have been packed in a carry-on bag and stashed away on a high shelf with the other items that will never fly with me again. The time has come for me to decide, and there is no more fighting involved. I no longer care about being significant in this life.
I can only scribble the words that I will leave behind, which will be scratched onto the tombstones of graves that will never have visitors.
They will become entombed within the ancient earth and the wildflowers. Never at any point did any of this serve a useful purpose. It was all just a game that was played out as a mess, and I ended up being the villain. I didn’t realize how much time I was wasting by living in the moment until I realized that the next one would never be certain. I did not leave my descendants anything but burdens, which they are still carrying today.
I long to be free, but I can’t seem to locate the exit. As the tips of my nails press against the keys, I have the feeling that I am searching for myself. As I move into the next century of my life, I am prepared to reevaluate everything I have always considered to be the case. This planet is a crippling, macabre symphony set on an exquisite stage of flowers and trees, mountains and seas, that call me to come to aloneness in a way that would make my loved ones ache. This planet bids me to come to aloneness.
Now that the veils have been lifted from this warped reality, I am forming a new personality and releasing the parts of myself that have been confined and tamed to appease others. As soon as I realized the truth, everything in me came crashing down. I was brought into this world by the devious hands of cunning men, and I am writing their truth from the detached perspective of a girl who has been rejected and who only wants to be able to hold the tiniest fragment of this world.
There are times when words are irrelevant. They don’t get absorbed, so the mind and the understanding don’t get any hydration from them. They drip off the surface of the skin like sweat and dissipate into thin air as they pass through the void. I am made of stardust and pollen, as well as flesh and bone. In order to be, I dissolve into nothingness, and that is the place where you can find me. I am finally free.
2 thoughts on “The Ego of Self Induced Terror”
Having been through two “deconstructions”, the last in my late 30s, I can empathize with your words. My own experience was of having nearly everything taken from me, and me being bedridden, in constant physical and emotional pain, with nothing to distract me from it. I kept hoping my mind would just snap so I could escape, but it never happened.
I was left to face myself and slowly rebuild myself. A process that is ongoing 15 years later.
I wish you the joy of the rebuild and the finding of peace and beauty. 🌷
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I appreciate you. 🌻