The day goes by in a lull. Between my ears are the static of a television not turned on. I’m not here, so if you could so kindly leave a message, I promise to get back to you eventually, soon, at some point in the near future, maybe never. This is what happens when I’m a shell of existence and I can’t find a way to associate to anything or anyone, including myself. This is what happens when I begin to disassociate.
It’s not often that I find myself staring at my skin and tugging at my strands of hair saying this isn’t me. There’s different episodes of this out-of-body phenomenon. Sometimes this isn’t me. Sometimes I’m trapped inside this vessel of self-destruction and self-harm in need of constant validation. Most of the times it’s reading over the words I share on social media, primarily Twitter, and seeing how little I relate to the speaker, myself. A lot of the time, I just don’t feel a thing.
It’s more than not feeling like myself. It’s more than looking at my actions and standing there baffled as I work through the chaos to see me, or a figment of myself in the debris. It’s the admission of my mistakes that send me spiraling into an identity crisis of not knowing this person I’m forced to call me. Sometimes it’s the words of my father belittling me in the jokingly way he tends to do that makes me look at myself as a shadow of … someone.
The truth is that this is only me. This is the only me I ever am but I feel like sometimes who is making for attention and sometimes even hiding behind her anxious tendency to hide from every human being isnt always what I can call myself. More than often it’s deeper. Deeper than this identity scare to where I wake up not feeling the pain that constantly explode within my nerves. There is nothing. Staring at television without wonder or care, looking into the eyes of my daughter who looks nothing like me and not wondering about her opinions of me.
Feeling nothing scares me the most.
I’m the child of addiction. I was not made through addiction rather than being raised in it. What haunts me about their disease is that in the midst of feeling nothing, their disease could easily become my own. Their addiction to feeling good and feeling everything may become a desire. One day I may want to feel the sensational tingle in my nose of the rolling euphoria that comes with the first puff. The good this is I can’t afford their addiction, I can’t afford their disease but I can afford to eat. So maybe the satisfaction comes from a different kind of high.
What scares me more is that one day I may realize that I’ll never be my “self”. I very well may never be the image of this self that has never been. The realization that never being me, being whole, being who I am proud of and always sure of terrifies me because I may deny myself the chance to do so. Sure, I’ve prided myself on being stubborn about forcing the foot to kick the bucket, but it’s forever a fear. I can’t leave this world without giving myself a chance.
There’s a prayer of sorts that I tuck deep into the pockets of my soul. One day I won’t be riddled by the diseases I can no longer see. One day all of this sadness and anger and tired and lost will no longer drag me down to the darkness in which I’ve lived for more than half my life. I pray, to who listens, that I find myself within myself and one day smile at her. I pray, to whoever I have pleased in my days, that I won’t be cured but that I be well.
One day I’ll see myself as I’m supposed to.