Drops - Through Me

There are a billion different things I want to talk about. Countless emotions I'd like to explore my way through and be done with, but I'm choking on my own words. It's like when you fill a bottle to the brim and the water has no room to move, and the slightest contact makes it spill everywhere. I'm overwhelmed by each emotion that tugs at my soul. A tug of war with a billion teams on every side, pulling with all their strength, trying to rip me apart. Every moment is another tug; first fear, then sorrow, then anger, shame, envy, anxiety, a little joy. It goes on and on. An infinite loop of feelings and there is no break command I can execute. Had this been a piece of code, ctrl + c would suffice. Alas, this is real life. Real life ain't no computer simulation, regardless of what Elon Musk claims.

Maybe if I could just halt this Ferris wheel of moments to focus on a single one and not be overpowered by the rest, I could work it out and move onto the next one. I could figure things out, solve the issue and move on, through every single feeling until there is nothing left. Back to tabula rasa, to start over again, but this time minding all the previous mistakes as to never repeat them again. A second chance to make amends. But I can't stop that wheel. I can't help but wonder if I'm choosing to be overwhelmed subconsciously. I can hear you say "yo, hold up, what does that even mean?" You see, I have trained myself to run from things, to choose distractions over facing issues, and I've done it far too well for my own good. The unknown has always scared me so maybe I'm just running from it and allowing this tug of war to take over without even realizing what I'm doing. Like a defense mechanism... a terrible, terrible one at that. One that brings more suffering than defending me against anything.

As if the emotions weren't enough, I also have to deal with my thoughts. The OCD. That bitch of a disorder. Obsessive compulsive disorder is such a fancy name for what is basically my mind torturing itself. Does a fancy name make it all better and erase the pain? What difference would it make if it was called "Shitty Torture Disorder"? None whatsoever, it would all be the same, I would still be fighting my own mind. If I could channel the energy I spend on keeping my obsessions and panic in check into something worthwhile, like temporal physics, I could even win a bloody Nobel prize. Hell, I might even figure out time travel. Yet, all of that precious brain energy goes to waste on maps, cycles, and planning. I'm not trying to brag, in fact, I'm trying to do the exact opposite, what I'm saying is that I am a colossal idiot who spends all her energy to keep everything under control when chaos reigns in my mind. Even when things are going relatively okay, all it takes it one second to spiral down into a special kind of hell created by my mind and all I can do is just sit there, smile and pretend I'm not screaming bloody murder inside. Why? Because that's how I'm expected to behave. That's what normal is. Ha... normal has left the building a long time ago. The funniest part? There are people who think this is cool. What the fucking hell, right? Apparently, this fucking disorder seems like a gift to some people. The grass is always greener on the other side, I suppose that's what it is because I fail to see how this can be cool in any way whatsoever. Those people, if they could walk just an inch, not even a mile, in my shoes... I bet they would curse the day they called OCD cool because I doubt anyone would ever appreciate watching life pass you by as you sit there, too afraid to do anything, avoiding things you'd like to do just because you're afraid of yourself and your own thoughts.

Honestly, I have some sort of an idea about where it all stems from. I mean, I know OCD is partially genetic - ha, thanks to my dad's side - but there also needs to be a trigger for OCD to manifest itself. And that's what I'm really pissed about. Maybe furious is a better word. The fact that I had a choice - but I blew my chance and made the wrong decision and let it trigger my disorder. Fear of hurting people - even people who had done me wrong of the worst kind, evil things on an unspeakable scale - stopped me from doing the right thing and correcting all the wrongs I'd been subjected to. Then came the denial. Obviously, admitting that I was a dumbass blinded by false hopes could never be an option, I had too much pride for that. So denial. Such is life; even the people close to you take advantage of your state to steer you in the direction they want, the right one in their reality. But really, I'm not mad at them. Giving them the chance - that was my fault. I know they didn't mean ill, but it doesn't make it any less painful. The rest was just anyone could guess. Retreating even further back inside myself, the controlling, the planning, the maps, the cycles, the sleepless nights, total shut down, the avoidance. I gave up on people after that and I tricked myself into thinking I was better off on my own. With the exception of very few people, I kept everyone at a safe distance, keeping them on the border between the spiritual and corporal, never allowing them to go into my mind. Obviously, spending all that time in your own head leads to all sorts of weird places. Did you know that I went to the ER in the middle of the night because I wasn't sure of my reality? Now you do. I was at home, on the sofa, staring at the ceiling when I suddenly thought "what if this is a dream? How do I know what is real and what's not?" Then I started panicking. The ER people told me to relax, forced some sedatives in me, and sent me back home. I still remember the terror and the cold sweat. Those kind of things you never forget.

Denial walks hand-in-hand with shame. Even when you think you've gotten rid of them both, they find a way to creep back into you, clutching at your soul with their toxic tentacles. As years pass by, shame becomes the powerful one. Have you ever felt that? No, I'm not talking about embarrassment that so many people mistake for shame. I'm talking about the raw shame, the kind that eats you up from inside, the one that you get to remember every moment of every hour of every day. See, that kind is a real bitch to deal with. This bubble of shame inside you. Hot like lava. Every time you try to touch it or try to get close to it, it burns. Blinds you. Incapacitates you. Buries you alive. How the fuck can anyone deal with that without having to experience that excruciating pain? That's what I have to tolerate on a daily basis - and some days on an hourly basis. It comes and goes like a deadly tide, ready to swallow you. Oh, and it knows how to play the game: it softens its grip sometimes, creates the illusion for you to believe in yourself again, and returns full-force a while later. So ever felt that? Or at least do you understand? Not a lot of people have felt that raw shame nor do they understand, hence a lot of "oh my, be kind to yourself" shit. There's no way I can be kind to myself unless someone comes and rips it right outta me. I don't see any other way, if you do, let me know.

I don't think I've ever told anyone how it really is - I mean, what actually happens. The heart is the first to react; it skips a beat and starts its hammering. The thud-thud-thud rhythm becomes bam-bam-bam. Then comes the cold extremities, all the blood leaves my hands and feet after which point I get the shakes. The tremble starts from my hands and take over my body, and then the stomach begins cramping. All the while my brain keeps throwing the worst memories at me. Making me feel worse, pushing me further down. I try to find comfort in things like music but doesn't help one bit despite how music seems to keep these moments at bay most of the time. Finally, I surrender and decide to ride it out, telling myself it's just a silly thing while I drown in the freezing waters of disgust, hatred, and rage. All directed at myself, not anyone else. When the physical torture is over, unresponsiveness presents itself - I'd call it apathetic state. Letting all the thoughts flow and accepting defeat, unable to move. Trying to avoid anything that might start it all over. With no energy left, not an ounce left, I force myself to sleep to shut my brain up. And the worst thing is, if I don't have access to a place to sleep it off, that fucking sucks. I mean, it's fucking hard to go on with your life without resting first. And if there are people to witness it, dear god, I can't even begin to tell you how that shit becomes a soul-hurt. Geez. You've really got to keep people away from that lest they get hurt too.

I used to be such a punctuation/grammar freak. I don't even know how to properly punctuate anymore. Whatever, that's not what matters, not right now. I would love to go on but I feel drained and not really that stable right now. Yet, feels like there's something missing, something that's still taking up space in my head. Whatever. I'll deal with it some other time. I guess Stanne was right; I can not talk the pain away, nothing ties the world to me. Bloody hell.

Good night everyone.

#MarkEliyahu