I have kept this WordPress tab open for a week trying to perfect an idea to write here. I tossed around popular ideas and then just as quickly felt disgusted that I would allow myself to cater to anyone. I made a deal with myself- my mind- whoever the voice in my head is that sounds like television inner monologue. My conditions change from instance to instance- but, what I write here must be raw. The word raw has been harassing me this week. I feel raw. I write raw. I dream raw. I assume it means an exaggerated feeling of vulnerability. Most uncomfortable yet addicting state of being. I want to push it away but as soon as it leaves I miss it and search for it. I feel alive for the first time in ten years. After my ex left two months ago not even the pain reminded me what emotion and life was supposed to feel like. My history with self harm had me trained to believe pain equals the most intense and readily available form of “presence”. I am uncertain if this is untrue or just stopped being my truth after a while. I don’t miss the harm- just the life I felt afterwards.
Ten years- a fucking decade of praying for a zombie apocalypse- all so that I might feel alive if everything else was much simpler to measure up against. I have tried to kill myself- drugs, starving, sleeping. I was too scared to do it again but the feelings of it never went away- so I let myself fade inside. Almost four years ago I made a drastic change and my mental health improved. I thought that was the end though- my emotional state of happy/sad/depressed/excited/anxious- all felt like my feelings were experienced through wax paper. Somewhere in that decade I did try harming again- only to be devastated in learning it did nothing. It was for the best I assure you.
The thing that entertains me the most is that aside of fighting suicidal ideation (with medication and therapy) I have this obsession with staying young- living – immortality. I often wonder if vampires have anxiety. Maybe the longing to live is explained in my selfish nature. I want to die if life hurts- if it is numb- if it is pointless. I want to live but live forever- to learn- to see- travel and grow. Neither of these choices work for me…and there is no option C -except to stay.
Am I the only one who thinks that words are meaningless; and yet I desperately use them in excess. I have been talking to a stranger for a week. They found me. Came to me. Reached out to me. They are the most terrifying person I have come across in- a decade. They are the fault and founder of my new obsession with cathartic release and raw vulnerability. This is not a diary entry in which I speak things that are hidden and built up. I am writing this because I can not stop myself from letting my words escape me- directly to them…with no filter of reservations. Reservations and fear are not the same in this instance- I am scared- they scare me to no end. They know everything I am writing about them because I have already told them. They are a mirror and spill their words- fears and desires. So to this end I say: My addiction has become the pursuit of raw and uncomfortable vulnerability with them- a possible metaphor for life.