I was always afraid of being different. Of standing out in anyway. I blended into a crowd, not by dressing the same or acting the same, but by being a little odd. That way, surprisingly enough, people seemed to ignore what was not like them. I hid my lies amoungst societies truths...
I covered my pains in false smiles. I painted my memories in blood and scrawled the words on the floor beneath by bed in the hopes no one were to ever discover the truth. There I would lie, limp and ashamed, drowning in the anger I thought I had smothered.
There I would stay. Under my bed, under my blanket of safety, I would cower from my emotions. I would stay curled up, with crimson eyes and do nothing but nurse my burning wrist.
I was never interupted, left to be alone, forgotten. I lay in the shadow of life shivering. I would go numb, not just physically but mentally. I no longer cared. I can point fingers and say names, but at the days end, I have only myself to blame. I choose my faith, and my choice was bound in not just blood, but tears and regret and pain and sorrow.
The worst part was knowing I was hurting my friends who cared, and myself, not caring what they felt. I would be lying if I said I was oblivious to the distress I caused them. I was, or possibly still am, a shameful individual. I still wish sometimes, when I curl up, that the whole world will just vanish and I will be left, forced to face my only possible company alone, my fears. They never leave. Like a shadow, even when there is no light, it is no better because it feels like you are now the shadows shadow, infinitly outnumbered with no hope.
I have been told I do not stand alone, that I have support, but support is only as useful as the individual who knows how to use it, and it could be said, I lost that manual. I feel like I am standing in a dark field, with no sun and no moon and my fears as my only company. Ironic isn't it? I get what I want, yet I still complain. It must be that unending, unrelenting issue that doesn't seem to take a break.
I am tired. I am fed up. I am only human. I am not even considered an adult because of my age. Yet I have gone through greater pain then some individuals will ever go through, but there are many who suffer greater pain then me, I can see that. I am not morally blind, just when it comes to me, and my body, my temple, I do not stop it from crumbling, in fact some would say I help it along.
If you read this, and you do not know me, you may be thinking this guy has issues. You may be thinking that even if you do but issues is an underestimation my strange reader friend. I have not taken one step, or two, or three down the wrong path, but I have taken dozens and dozens and dozens down this dark, evil road. I can no longer see where it begun. I am lost on a one way street that has no signs, no shops, no people, nothing but me and my tormentors. Now before you say the obvious, perhaps you should take a step back. It is not as easy as just turning around and walking back the way I came. That is impossible. There is two ways to get off this road. One of these is the blatently obvious, and the other is to stick it out. To walk that extra mile, or kilometer, or furlong. And never, ever, look back.
There is no shortcuts. Shortcuts would be pointless. If I am honest, I am struggling to remember a time when I did not feel in such a desperate state. If I was to be described as a country, the most suitable at this moment in time would be Greece or Egypt. Totally and utterly chaotic. My mind is black, there is no light. And without the light, I fear I will remain on my desolate road until I choose the obvious exit.
Pity is not what I want. Some people would call this a cry for help. Do not be so ridiculous. I am writing this, so that hopefully, when I find my light, my sun, or simply a torch with a couple of batteries, I will be able to turn my head around, without being afraid, without crying, without painting my picture in blood and scribing my story on the floor with my nails, and smile. I hope, if I still can, that someday soon, I can read this and laugh.
I want my past four years to become a long, drawn out joke, because if it does not, I fear it will always be what it is now, my life.