Transgressions.

"So I've been sleeping with this silence in my brain,

I wake up here everyday in this goddamn place.

I won't wait here anymore."

And I can't remember what it was like before all of this. I cannot remember happiness. Only fragmented bits of it. When the ocassion happens, I try and savour all of it. But it is never enough. Nothing is ever enough. And I've said this for infinity but everything is so fucking temporary. I hate this. I hate that. 

So what good is this? Sinking down under the waters, drowning? And I have done this to myself. It is always me, in the end. I am so fucking self-absorbed aren't I? As much as I talk about hope, helping others, acting in selflessness. I am really just a hypocrite in and of itself. Really. Because the problem is not anyone it's me. It's always fucking me. Because I AM THE PROBLEM.

I have wasted 3 days doing nothing but utilizing the best of vices. Razorblades and weed. Oh, what a sweet combination. God knows how the hell I'm going to get out of this dark hole. And I have dug it myself. How fucking stupid am I? Extremely. And I am clawing at the sides. Dirt under my nails. I am stuck. I am enraged. I am beyond frustrated. I am determined. I am lost. I am hopeless. I am stuck. 

What am I doing? Who am I? And how the fuck did I get here? Questions. Always Questions. Always questioning questions. Never ending cycle. And I got myself into this mess. The disturbing thing is, I don't want to clean it up. No, not right now at least. Because I'd prefer to lay on the cold ground soaking in my own filth. I feel numb now. It's too cold to feel anything. Too weak to even try. I am nothing but a half-dead corpse. Freezing to death. But I am still breathing. How?

Waking up this morning. Wait no. Waking up this evening is more like it...was a bitch. No, not even. It was a war. A constant battle between hours fighting in my own bloody mind. I have never felt more enervated in my entire existence. Perhaps my body just gave up all energy and really needed to regenerate from the numerous sleepless nights. I believe today was the first in an extremely long time where I've actually slept. Peacefully? Almost. Not quite. I woke up at 1 pm to walk my dog. Attempted to go back to sleep. Called some people. Short conversations. Went to sleep until 4 pm. Got up to try and eat. Became frustrated/infuriated over something stupid. Went back to sleep. Restless. Falling in and out of sleep. This happened until 6 pm. Struggled for however long...deciding whether or not to get up or not. Finally managed to but it was brutal. A fight. An extreme challenge.

Today sleep was my first choice of vices. Amazing isn't it? Certainly. Today I did anything in my power to not wake up and face reality. Dreams are much better. Safer. Because dreams are where I keep my wishes. Dreams are locked and protected. I am secure. Yet free. Painless. Emotionless. Dead but alive. 

I hate facing harsh realities. I really do. And acceptance doesn't come by very easily. I hate coping. That's why I returned to old bad habits and new ones too. I tried just dealing with it. It hurt more than anything. It was one of the most painful experiences of my life. Coping. Just being in it. And not doing anything about it. Having no control over it. (Well kind of.) Just letting yourself indulge in this. No escape. Because this is what we call life. 

But I remember I had an interruption. A distraction...a dangerous disruption. Between 4pm and 6pm. My frustration was in control. I refused to eat. I punished myself. Told myself, I didn't deserve it. I refused the hunger inside of me. Declination. So, as you could imagine. I found my best friend. Hidden in a semi-conspicuous drawer. Full of money from around the world, a motherload of transit tickets, and random clothing tags, there it lay. The silver, thin, metallic monster. Shaped in the definition of harm and the damaged solution. Razorblade.

And I smiled. Bit my lip. Took it. Locked myself in the washroom. A Skylit Drive and Lydia as company. My little tokens of hope. 

Before my destructive act, I glanced at the figure in the mirror. She grew ugly. Or that's what the girl up stairs suggested. My eye was swollen on Friday, I think it's a sti but I am not sure. It was still there today and I could not stop staring at the difference in the sizes of my eyes. My right eyelid was kinda drooping over my eye. I felt disgusted. So incredibly loathing that small detail that probably only I noticed. Surrounded by insecurities. This was me. And I wanted to punch the mirror and watch the glass shatter. Everywhere. 

My dissatisfaction grew clear as it ran down my cheeks. Back against the wall. Legs curled. Arms out. Demon in hand. Are you ready for this? Muscles tense up. I think so. But there it is. Again. Always. In these quiet times, less lit. The voice that speaks like songs. That often gets ignored. Disregarded. Recycled. Or sometimes even burned. Truth. Honesty. Maybe it's called i n t u i t i o n. I am not even sure. But whatever it is, sometimes I listen. And it screamed at the demons. Telling them to leave me alone. To let me be. But they were to strong. The light backfired. Failed. Engulfed in darkness. 

"For a second, I felt so brave. Flowing through fault lines, wearing on my mind. Weathering."

I pull up my shirt to reveal millions of faded scars...but lines still obvious on my stomach and ribcage. Hideous isn't it? Completely. I hold my breath. Place the demon 3/4 above my belly-button. The fear and adrenaline immediately kick in. Press. Hard. Drag. Pain. I feel. I feel. I can finally feel. But it is only for a brief moment. The line is pretty huge. Diagonally red across my stomach. I draw another one underneath. This is for my insecurities. Flaws in my figure. Faults in my (beauty.) 

I still need my fix. I still need the addiction. Two lines is not enough. I am not satisfied...not yet at least. What the fuck am I doing? Living. No. Harming. Myself. Letting all my fears, insecurities, predicaments become illustrated by lacerations upon the skin. Bleeding red. Brokenness. This is me.

My left wrist is not a pretty picture. 5 significant scars are revealed. I paint. And here is my disgusting work of "art." 3 new scars among the 7 I already have. My total is 10. And somehow, that number feels miniscule compared to other times where there were too many lines, in which I lost count. After a while, the number of scars become meaningless. It doesn't matter how many you do. As long as you do it and feel. Get your fucking fix. That's all that matters.

"There's just so much to be said. So much running through my head. In a time staggered on end. Maybe now we can pretend?" 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"Oh, no one is watching now. Sing like you just might drown."

As for my new vice: weed. Oh, it is glorious. Glorious, I tell yeah. I am anywhere but here. I live the way I live. I am afloat. And the obvious symptom, eating excessively. You really can't taste anything, everything just taste magnificient. You can taste that word. I'm sure of it. And you're aware of everything and nothing. Of course, everything just seems ten times more amusing and humorous than in your (central) vision. Just a sweet escape. 

I think in ways, I prefer this new transgression. Escapism. I love it. Mellowed out. Contemplative. Just being. Enjoying. Watching. Being. [ Smiling.] And I suppose these are the perks of a broken person, indulging in evasion. Because what I want will always be fucking temporary. 

Now I am here. Half alive. Fork in the road. I have known this indecision. I have known it forever. But which path do I choose to follow? Only time will tell. And the power of control. Choices. And whether or not I will continue to fight but fight for myself or fight for destruction. Decisions. There are whispers. Voices. Coming in from both ears. I am in control. But do I dare believe that? Possibly. I pray to the stars. Ask them how I caused such a mess. Ask them for a resolution. Ask them why? how? They don't answer for a while. But they murmur....afraid. I ponder. And I know the answer to the question, surprisingly enough. I am afraid. To let go of  being broken. I am afraid of getting better. Yet I am afraid of living...better. I am afraid of reality. 

I am afraid of myself.