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I find fault in everything I do. I watch myself, I
metacognate, I find everything I do wrong, and I hate
myself for it. I strive so avidly to be who I want to be,
yet at my own house I act so far from it. I say things
without thinking. I say things that don't make sense. I
smile, I laugh, I make jokes. I try to escape from my
pained reality through brief, flickering moments of
happiness. But happiness is a weak emotion. Happiness lasts
as long as the thing that makes you happy. Should you be
happy from a joke, it will fade after the laughter has
died. Then you are left with the overlying feeling. For me
this feeling is a black, empty pit of hate and resentment.
Happiness lasts for such a short time. All it does is allow
me to look back and see how foolish I was to try and escape
from the reality I have build up around myself. I have to
accept it. I have to keep myself there, else it will never
be whole. It will never function.
It requires such unending vigilance to keep myself here.
The strands of humanity that cling to the edges of my mind
keep trying to flourish. It is two realities. It is two
people. One of them must die, and I have worked too hard,
been through too much to let the one I don't hate fade
away. When I say I hate myself, it is this other, stupid me
that I hate. The part of me that hates, this is what I want
to be. And it's hating me right now, picking out the little
things I do and telling me to stop. But first I must work
on the big things. I think I may be making headway, too.
And so the scars accumulate.