I am a strong woman. I have been through quite a bit despite my 26 years. I have lived in 3 major cities and have been to 7 countries beside my own. I have been in car accidents, fired people, and been kicked out of law school. I've survived the proverbial wringer.
I am also also the culprit of emotional crimes. I am verbally abusive, hostile, and unforgiving. Quite a lot of power for one person, yes?
In reality, however, no. I may play the role of the heroine well, but I know how to wallow in the role of the victim so much better. I am the abuser and the abused. It's amazing to me that I can be both so strong and so helpless.
I am no match for my abuser. She does not work in the realm of reason. She does not use logic as her guide. She seeks out my most feared truths and taunts me with them. Reality plays a very small role, as her only limitations are physical. And physical pain is not how she disturbs me. She makes my emotions her bitch using blinders to block possible escape routes. Sometimes she rubs so much salt in my emotional wounds, the only way to get it out is to cry until the tears won't come anymore. She cloaks hope and guides me toward despair.
She is a demon, and it's possible that if I were alive in the appropriate time, I would have been exorcised. Or strapped down and shocked.
Now, all I have to do to avoid victimhood, to resume my place as heroine of my life, is take medication each day. That's all actually. Three little pills and life isn't painted black. Three little pills and obstacles are challenges not impediments.
But... there is no test for my disease. There is no confirmation of my abnormality. There is just my word that my mind keeps playing cruel tricks on me. And the efficacy of the three little pills. But without proof, the antagonist in my mind tells me that I am being intellectually lazy. If I tried really hard, I could be just like everyone else. If I just put my mind to it, the heroine could make the villain her bitch. That's what I (or some version of me) tell myself. So I reduce the frequency of the pills or just abstain from taking them. Just to see, you know? To see if I can live without beating myself up. It always starts off well, and I am encouraged by the thought that I have finally overcome this dependency on drugs.
I am confident that if I charted my emotional state on a graph in comparison to the number of days off of the pills, I would see an inverse relationship. Two weeks, maybe a month, and the heroine is locked in chains again. She is being whipped by the criminal. She is huddled and crying and in too much pain to see straight.
When people think about or act upon suicide, I don't think it's always a matter of wanting to die. While semantical, I think it's more a matter of not wanting to live anymore. Without a clear purpose or meaning in life, we can only assume that it's here to do what we will with it. And if one doesn't want to do anything with it, suicide doesn't seem like the worst option in the world. I can't sp
I am also also the culprit of emotional crimes. I am verbally abusive, hostile, and unforgiving. Quite a lot of power for one person, yes?
In reality, however, no. I may play the role of the heroine well, but I know how to wallow in the role of the victim so much better. I am the abuser and the abused. It's amazing to me that I can be both so strong and so helpless.
I am no match for my abuser. She does not work in the realm of reason. She does not use logic as her guide. She seeks out my most feared truths and taunts me with them. Reality plays a very small role, as her only limitations are physical. And physical pain is not how she disturbs me. She makes my emotions her bitch using blinders to block possible escape routes. Sometimes she rubs so much salt in my emotional wounds, the only way to get it out is to cry until the tears won't come anymore. She cloaks hope and guides me toward despair.
She is a demon, and it's possible that if I were alive in the appropriate time, I would have been exorcised. Or strapped down and shocked.
Now, all I have to do to avoid victimhood, to resume my place as heroine of my life, is take medication each day. That's all actually. Three little pills and life isn't painted black. Three little pills and obstacles are challenges not impediments.
But... there is no test for my disease. There is no confirmation of my abnormality. There is just my word that my mind keeps playing cruel tricks on me. And the efficacy of the three little pills. But without proof, the antagonist in my mind tells me that I am being intellectually lazy. If I tried really hard, I could be just like everyone else. If I just put my mind to it, the heroine could make the villain her bitch. That's what I (or some version of me) tell myself. So I reduce the frequency of the pills or just abstain from taking them. Just to see, you know? To see if I can live without beating myself up. It always starts off well, and I am encouraged by the thought that I have finally overcome this dependency on drugs.
I am confident that if I charted my emotional state on a graph in comparison to the number of days off of the pills, I would see an inverse relationship. Two weeks, maybe a month, and the heroine is locked in chains again. She is being whipped by the criminal. She is huddled and crying and in too much pain to see straight.
When people think about or act upon suicide, I don't think it's always a matter of wanting to die. While semantical, I think it's more a matter of not wanting to live anymore. Without a clear purpose or meaning in life, we can only assume that it's here to do what we will with it. And if one doesn't want to do anything with it, suicide doesn't seem like the worst option in the world. I can't sp
