I know you think little of yourself. It is a lack of self-esteem and self-doubt, believing that you’re worthless, a burden to others by your mere presence, your mere existence, as if you’re not qualified to be born, not worthy of happiness or its pursuits, not enough to love or be loved. I know that at this point, you do not even want to believe in yourself, or be confident, or to have others believe in you, and I know you definitely don’t want them to encourage you.
I know this, because you are afraid. It is, by its very nature, a fear that’s rooted itself so deep and entangled with your sense of being, that inexplicably, something you’ve grown to despise about yourself, growing into such a pleurisy, you do not know who you are without it, that even given the choice you would not part ways and simply leave the needless angst and worry behind.
I know this, because you are burdened. It is heavy to carry the weight of every fault, every mishap, every slight and moment streaming through your mind from every angle, not to enjoy in blissful memory but to dissect in order to ensure you’ve properly sequenced every negative potential, potential outcome, potential mistake, potential perception, potential consequence, so that you may find them, prepare for them, fix them, never repeat them, or simply know of to dwell on, in appeasement to that dissociated voice in your head, observing from on high, to pass judgement on whether you’ve lived up to higher standards than you’ve ever held anyone else.
I know this, because you are tired. It is exhausting to desire something that you feel you will never have, like spending every waking moment clawing at the moon in desperate attempts to catch it in your hands while your two feet are planted on this Earth only to sleep and be haunted by nightmares of finally having it in your grasp to let it slip away forever gone, tortured awake again in lucid anguish over being teased by the loss of your unattainable desire, and as the night darkens, having missed the moon for another night, your hope diminished and withered, you contemplate the only way you know how to rest, how to break the endless cycle of hoping and falling short, trying and failing, wanting and not having, you contemplate eternal slumber, the remedy to the tired, aching, and lasting wishes not come true.
I know this, because I was once this and a part of me will always be this. I see you because I was you and a part of me always will be you. I know this, and I still see good in you. I know this, and I still see value in you. I know this because I believe in you. I will stay with you, cheer for you, listen to you, speak to you, care for you, cherish you, value you, and have love for you. even if you’re gone I will not resent you, have hate for you, or feel betrayed by you. i do this for you, this piece of me, this side of me, this version of me, not all of me, the forever me, or the only me, and I’ve found a better remedy, to that which was ailing me.
I’ll have to work on this one. Trying to feel out the defensive mechanism at work. How we adapt disorder into our identity. Which can lead to one of two outcomes. We succumb to it, a victim, petrified. Or we overcome, a mastery, moving with it in its ebbs and flows.
