Ways In Which I am a Terrible Person

I’m a terrible person, I tell you. You look up at me startled, confusion glinting in your eyes. 

What? You’re hesitant to reply. You’re not quite sure what to say, unsure of whether or not you’re supposed to comfort me and reassure me or if you need to just hear this one out. 

I’m a terrible person, I repeat, voice teetering on the edge of exasperation. I don’t know how to explain it, but I just know it. There is something rotting inside of me, like every bad decision I’ve ever made is fermenting between my ribs and every time I breathe, the smell of its decay expels from me. I can’t explain it. It’s a horrible feeling.

That’s gross. You crinkle your eyebrows at me, lips begin curling upward in a look of bewilderment and disgust. Why do you talk like that, anyway? I don’t even understand what you’re saying. Why are you a terrible person? I notice that you don’t deny the fact. 

I just… I begin to say but trail off, uncertain of how to continue. I try to gather my thoughts into a coherent sentence, but everything was slipping through my fingers. I fall into this hole, more often now than before it seems, and it’s this dark, dark place that once I’m in, I can’t find my way out. And the thing is, I know I can. I know I can do certain things that will help me find the light of day, but I willingly choose not to because the dark… well, the dark is just so comforting. It’s familiar, you know? I see you beginning to open your mouth to speak, but I’m quick to continue rambling, cutting you off from any sort of advice or insight or comment you have into my ranting. Like I said, I’m a terrible person.

And once I’m in this hole, this pit of despair and self-loathing, I push everyone away. I struggle to respond to messages, I bury myself in books because I can’t bear the sound of my own thoughts, and I just don’t want to talk to anyone. And then I resent everyone for not checking in on me, for not being there for me, as if I’m not the one who distanced myself from them in the first place. What kind of sick thought process is that? Jesus. And then I write about it because I can’t help it -- because I can’t seem to find any inspiration outside of my pathetic self-pity and this grief that I’ve drawn out for too damn long. Everything I write is the goddamn same. I don’t know how to do it any other way. I don’t know… 

My words all seem to melt together as they tumble out of my mouth at lightning speed, like I’m rushing, no racing, against some invisible timer. I sound like a drunk, stumbling over my sentences, unconvinced that I even strung together a lucid thought. You’re fidgeting with the bottom of your shirt, head down, not making eye contact with me, but I can see now that you’re listening, trying to figure out what to say to me. Again, I don’t give you a chance. Maybe in some twisted way, I’m trying to save you from deciphering what I want to hear from you instead of what I really need to hear. 

I do not mean to be terrible. I don’t enjoy suffering… or, I don’t know. Maybe I do. But I don’t mean to be cruel, to myself, or to others. It just feels like I’m not living life. It feels like I am just leaving things behind, over and over and over again, and calling it survival. No, that’s not right. I’m not leaving things behind. I feel like I’m being left behind, constantly. I don’t mean to be so cynical, that’s not who I am, truly. I’m a dreamer, but I’m terrified of never getting the things I want. So I guess, in a way, I set myself up for failure because indifference is easier to handle than disappointment. It’s like I’m wrapping myself in bandages, wrapping wounds that have yet to be cut. And all it does is suffocate me. But I don’t know how to do it any other way. I don’t know how to navigate this world without this armor even though it traps me. I can’t breathe. I can’t--

I stop suddenly like I’ve run out of breath, the rest of my words dying in the back of my throat. My eyes burn as I feel tears brim, threatening to spill over. Anger bubbles in my chest, and I hate that I let my emotions get the better of me once again. Your silence is deafening. 

I’m sorry, I hate the way my voice wavers, the madness and anguish leaving me exposed and vulnerable. It feels now as if I have a target seared into my chest with the way my heart pounds. There is a WANTED sign above my head, following me around. WANTED: in search of her sanity. In search of any semblance of rationality. 

You still say nothing, but I don’t blame you. There is nothing to be said. You shift closer to me until I can feel the warmth of your body through the layers of my clothes. Your hand reaches for mine, interlacing our fingers. Nothing to be said, but an act of solidarity that melts the ice around my heart a little. You rest your head on my shoulder. Nothing to be said. 

My breathing begins to slow back to normal. In and out. Your fingers tighten around mine, and our chests rise and fall in harmony. In and out. In and out. You still have not said a word aloud, but I hear you.

In and out. I am here. I am here for you. In and out. In and out.