The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot

I’m sitting here alone. On my anniversary. My anxiety and depression getting the best of me. Sometimes I wish I had never received the diagnosis. Life was much simpler before it. Yeah, sometimes I acted against my own best interest, but, I was happily unaware. 

Now, I’m in my own head more than ever. Playing the past like a movie. Questioning everything I’ve ever done. Did I do it because I truly wanted to, or was I manic and my inhibitions lowered to the point that I couldn’t stop the impulse?

I look back and see my self sabotage. I look back and see how broken I really am. It’s no question that life gave me a raw deal. An abusive father, an unloving mother. It’s just a miracle that I didn’t end up a serial killer. Instead, I became someone that throws their entire heart into something, then fucks it up.

Normalcy is all I’ve ever wanted, but the only thing I’ve never truly been able to obtain. Maybe it’s good to know, after all these years, why I do these things. But, it obviously doesn’t make me feel any better. Feeling even worse is what it gets me. Now, I’m just super aware of every shift in mood. 

So, I sit here drinking. I know I shouldn’t, but, I’ve got to get my brain to calm down. 

A hundred years ago, they would have put someone like me in the hospital for the rest of my life. I’m not entirely sure that that is the wrong way of doing things. Medicate it away, give me a labotamy, maybe some shock therapy. Anything to stop feeling. I’m tired of being stuck in my feelings. Tired of feeling everything to their extremes.

I don’t know. Maybe it’s too early to into treatment to feel any better. I’ll stick with it though, if only in hopes to feel normal. Maybe just to have the life that I’ve always dreamed of.


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