Fevered Perseption

I have such a screwed up sense of self and such a paranoid view of life. It's like the image has been altered and comes in a grayish color now-a-days, and only when I've swallowed the medicine only those who are deemed mad must take to assure those who are civilized their own safety, then the image returns to what I've decided must be normal.1

The thought has been crammed into our heads from birth that we must be perfect; we must be beautiful, skinny, blond, smart, and so unbelievably happy with life that our eyes glow and glimmer in the sunlight. We must break out into show tunes at the slightest moment of joy, and weep in a ballad when true love's lost. But sadly this is not reality. Reality is hallucinations; our confused perceptions. Reality is distorted city colors of gray and white. Reality is a little boy crying in the street while people hastily draw the blinds. Reality is a desperate mother curled in pain and shock beneath the shadow of her drunken husband, and broken bits of a beer bottle sprayed across her thin frame, while her own son is made to videotape her humiliation.2

I walk barefoot through the streets, letting pebbles and glass cut my feet, but when I look down and see the blood, I just walk on, limping ever so slightly. Society told us to quit complaining and just ignore the problem. Maybe it will go away. But I have to tell the world, problems do not just disappear overnight. I should know. 3

My everlasting problem has haunted me every single day for eight years. And the only person who has to hear my complaints is myself. And I'd like to say that I rarely put pity unto myself for something he did, but that would be a lie. He did it. It was a mistake HE made. But every victim feels some sort of guilt, and I was never the exception to the rule.4

I do know that I made no mistake except not seeking help sooner.5

Maybe repeating those thirteen words will make me realize the absolute truth in that one meager sentence. He told me it was OK. It was normal.6

I knew it was a lie. I knew it was a lie. I knew it was a lie.7

Seven does not make you stupid, it makes you bendable, breakable, and easily used.8

And when love knocked at my door six years later, I paniced. I ran circles and hid behind the only thing I knew was a safe haven. Sarcasm, jokes, smiles, and false laughter. But slowly those things tore away. He ripped at the bindings that enclosed me and freed my misery, until only the last bits of guilt, who refused to be pried away from my insides, were left. Any outwardly spoken pain was tucked away into the corners of my bedroom.9

He confronts me. Wants to know what's wrong with me. He tells me he wants me to pour out my soul and let him drink it. He wants it to be inside of him, a part of me, any part of me, inside of him. Even my insanity. He will take it. He tells me that nothing I say can surprise him. He is thirsty and begs for anything. A sip. Something to satisfy the urge he is feeling.10

My anxious habit of circles drawn by knuckles on the nearest hard surface has returned. I'm bouncing from foot to foot and my only responses are strictly shakes of the head and eye movements. I know that if I utter a word every pent up emotion will come crashing out. I can tell because when I try to speak my voice cracks and breaks.11

He keeps glancing at my hands, as if coming to the realization of how large this situation actually is. And I just realized a second ago that this is somewhat of a cowardly thing for me to do. You know... this. Writing what I should have said, instead of letting the tears come and screaming, pounding walls the way I'd like to. I have my own urge to break something, but it doesn't transfer into a physical action. Instead, another pillar holding up what little bit of hope shatters; that last reminant of stability in my mind comes tumbling down.12

I felt horrible when I had to dance around the subject with him. All I left him to know was that I came to him already broken. Already used and left to rot. He was getting a clearance item. Cheap, broken, but still mildly useful. I had been picked over by those craving perfection, left on the bottom shelf of a discount store, where a leak had crept into my packaging and further reduced what little value I had held onto. And I knew it hurt him. But how could I let the last bit of pain fly? It could have ruined us, I know, but the chaos somehow comforted me. It gave me that needed sense of, 'I have reason to feel the way I feel, and be as mad as I like.'13

So then why does he love me? Why does he stay, even though emotionally we are 2,000 miles apart? The most we have is a shaky friendship, at best. How is love possible at this distance? At this great distance... he still loves me, and it feels as if he is near. Very close and I can just barely feel the warmth of his skin on mine, his warm breath whispering sweet nothings nearby. How lovely that feeling is, to be singled out of a crowd for good things to happen to you. The day I look most forward to though, will be the day I stand in front of him emotionally and mentally clean, and gain his approval.14

Though we have many differances in family, friends, morals, and even languages we normally speak, our love is a common trait between us. Even if it isn't a romantic love in the present day, and we don't speak often because I had to push him away or risk hurting him beyond repair, our love, our friendship; such a fevered perception in which a thousand miles and an inch are the same. Where reality and falsehood are identical. And night and day are combined as one.15

We will always be united in the moments we shared; the moments we spent having fun, fighting, or merely lying side by side, feeling the weight of a hard day leave with each deep breath he takes. I can look back fondly on held hands and the days that passed to quickly thinking about him, but I can never forgive myself for allowing him to desperatly try fixing a lost cause. For even letting on that he could achieve this makes me feel like a bad person, trying to inflict pain upon every loved one around me.16

I know that my influence over him was not that great, and that his naturally strong will was going to override my own quiet nature, but I didn't resist his soothing words. I instead clung onto them, shutting my eyes somberly, waiting for more words to coddle my insecurities.17

Since he left my life, I have not let a single soul near my own. I have put up a wall bigger than life itself not only around my heart but around my whole self. There, I am left in the dark where I don't nesisarily want to be, but where I feel safest. I know that here I can only hurt myself and those who try too hard to break me down. And those who have such perseverance deserve to be knocked down once in awhile and feel even a minute part of what I and others like myself feel every day.18

I only hope that expressing the things I feel and think everyday, though not nearly as poetic, more a disjointed stutter in my throat, can help someone aliviate some guilt and powerlessness they feel, too, and use my words to pacify their own chaotic and restless mind, and give their quiet hatred a power and voice that they can use against the person who selfishly took away their innocence.