If you look closer, there is a beauty in sadness. The ability that one can feel emotions deep enough to move mountains is something I admired until I slammed my head against a wall and never felt it again. I was crying, for once, frustrated as the fear took over me. If I know anything — anger, anxiety, panic mean you're perceiving some kind of threat. I don't remember what that was. I was seventeen.
There was a lot going on. I could chalk it up to domestic drama. The point at which my last friend in the school I was attending let me go had opened my eyes to the fact that I didn't want them around anyways. I didn't grieve the death of whatever we had; it was conditional, pretentious and served its purpose. I'd only bat an eye at what was most important to me, what generalized anxiety disorder made me think of on a daily basis, and how concerning it was that I would spend hours staring into space after I got home. Squandering my energy for losers wasn't my forte yet.
No. Endless hours were spent getting more sick, for when I was ready for that, I would lose all self-respect I had in the blink of an eye.
It was insane how fast yet slow time went by. During my growth from attentive and ambitious into a stoner who loathed hard work, I probably lost more things that defined me well than the time I went psychotic months later.
6 days of no sleep.
Antipsychotic medication that helped me come back to reality.
I was truly never the same again.
Seriously. I continued to fuck up, royally. Never knew what I needed and could never get what I wanted. Nothing I did fell in line with what was best for me. All I did was hurt myself, be it I cut that day or mentally scarred myself in a year. I should have never let certain people in, the ones who destroyed my ability to trust or recover from traumas that haunted me and controlled my actions.
I wasn't a shy person. I was actually damaged.
I could tell because my social battery was too high. I constantly craved interaction, and when I didn't, something was wrong with me, like a deep depressive or panic state. This extraversion I had no handle over caused me to look into myself and realize I was far more inadequate than I could ever tell by already being self-consciously hypervigilant of myself.
Fast forward many years later. There came a point in time I came to admit I was too ill to be in a relationship. I was as crazy as he called me during our fights and bickering, especially when I would investigate his change of mannerisms and accuse him of cheating. No matter if I was right or wrong, this situation wasn't safe for either of us. I didn't know the truth and didn't believe what I perceived as fibs coming from his mouth. That alone drove me up the fucking wall. Deliriously, I went about our days together, eventually breaking into psychotic states if I didn't take my medication. It was time I did what was best for us.
Medicated. Over how others act.
Despite my confession, my partner still begged me not to go. Promised there were wonderful things about me that still mattered despite my undying will to start arguments. He wasn't wrong. Beneath those horrendous behaviours was a desire and will to commit to getting better. And love properly.
I did well when I wanted to. Hell, I could keep orchids from dying early. But I wasn't consistent enough. At some point, old tendencies would all come flooding back and I'd relapse. Did I have an addiction to self-sabotage as well? Or was it easier this way?
It might've been all I knew. Perhaps this was the right way to communicate that I was unsuitable for him. I was a pastel sky. He was a blood red and black stone wall. I loved him so much. But I wasn't a real contender for a life partner. He treated me as such, by being a cheapskate, on top of that, asking for money from me when I didn't have much left instead of waiving what I 'owed' him.
God. It wasn't a relationship. He was narcissistically waiting to throw me away. No wonder why I constantly thought and wondered how his past relationships went. I knew I was the only person he took for granted this much while he lived the life I wanted with other women in the past.
He wasn't so much a martyr like he thought. He was the fucking devil, dancing with my heart, laughing as he lead me into the dark corners of my subconscious and leaving me alone there.
In time, no longer would I ask to suffer at the hand of such a fowler. Brighter days were ahead. Just in time, I detached from my emotional mind, and began to rely on distractions. I knew what came of my actions. Hence why I attempted to leave. But he was more tied to me than I thought.
Did my unconditional love put a spell on him?