I want to be alone?
I tell myself that, and that makes me a hypocrite. I force myself to be outgoing because that’s what I want. I want that. But when the world gets to me I’m sent back by a mile. Flung into a brick wall, and I become injured, but I never treat myself. But I get up again because I know what I want. “Read my zines! I like your band!” And then, when any sort of reality gets me, such as an innocent response, I’m flung back again- my wounds getting worse. Weaker and weaker, but how accepting and careless can one be? I set an example of defying myself. Now I ask, my voice more quiet, my scooting through life more timid. Every time I’m sent back to the start, my progression is less. Then, just an inch of reality is too much for me. I bang my head against that brick wall I wanted so badly to not slouch on. The starting point in my head. The lowest part of my brain, the most extreme of my weaknesses that they call a disorder. Is it still a disorder when I have accepted it as a true part of my unusual life? Beat my head against the wall, the last bits of the normal human brain now splattered against those bricks of mental drought and anguish and terror- more firm than any of those years of practiced human perfection could be.