I hurt myself working out recently. Nothing serious, just multiple sprains. I had worked-out in a frenzy. I suddenly realized why it is that I push so hard that I’m willing to hurt myself. Because it hurts too much not to.

I’ve been there. I’ve been so many people, you name it. I’ve been vile, I’ve been despicable, I’ve been disrespectful. I’ve been a thief. I’ve been a pervert. I’ve been ungrateful. I’ve been hurtful. I’ve been secretive. I’ve been absolutely hateful. I’ve been mean. I’ve been sexist, racist, and homophobic. I’ve wished death upon everyone including myself at least at some point or another, out of foolishness or benediction. I’ve been a theist and I’ve been atheist. I’ve been dismissed. I’ve been rejected. I’ve been abandoned. I’ve been beaten, spit upon, pushed, shoved, kicked, punched, choked. I’ve been scared. I’ve been angry. I’ve been bloodthirsty. I’ve been unfeeling. I’ve been evil. I’ve been unforgiving, I’ve been jaded, I’ve been apathetic. I’ve been annoying, I’ve been neglectful. I’ve been teased, bullied, laughed at, tripped, lied to, cheated, and balked at. In cold rationale, I speak these words to myself: my story is nothing new.

But what is new to me, that I can’t shake, that leaves me crawling and squirming in my skin like a child of mine that is a hideous MONSTER–no if, and’s, or but’s: whatever it takes in your mind to make something a monster, this is what it is. But it is my child. It is mine. I pain myself in attempt to sculpt out of the dingy mass of my past a version of me I respect and admire because not to do so causes me pain. Being who I am causes me to suffer so I must work to become something more, a me that has yet to live. My body tires even now, under the weight of the lives that I’ve never lived. So to learn what it means to be dedicated, disciplined, unconditionally passionate, and strong makes the pain of it all worth it. To learn what it means to love myself in a way that no one could take such love away again, it teaches me on so many levels. Suffering has always been my teacher, so now it is time that I become my teacher and surpass her.

Making sedentary my life for the sake of recovery has driven me somewhere I used to call home. It has driven me to the coffin in which I had layed for so long suffocating. It had led me back to that feeling I fight so hard but refuse to acknowledge the struggle against out of pride or whatever it may be. It is the feeling Helplessness. Helplessness and regret for the times in which I could’ve helped myself but didn’t because I was too…weak. Too stupid. Too ignorant. Too young.

When a feeling arises, when you are yet again hurt so badly by someone who cares for you so little, you could run. You could run that feeling into the ground. You could run that feeling to a point where its grip loosens around your neck as it falls to the wayside, too tired to keep up. Strangely enough though, after having feeling the weight alleviate itself, you feel as though you are just getting started. You could lift heavy objects and squat them too. You could engage in a physical activity that you enjoy and push your limits so to become better than you were when you were originally hurt: not so that you can’t be hurt again by that which shot so true, but so that the next time, it hurts less. So that next time, you can look the pain in the eye and let your presence in life be known. When your heart breaks and all that energy that was used to keep it together suddenly floods every channel and highway of your body, you can not only pick up the pieces to make something new, something else…but you can use whatever’s left of you to grind out something new, some new pieces.

The worst part though, Reader, is that I can’t stand it when the sand and mud settles and the glass starts to clear up. I can’t stand just staring at walls or watching the world breathe on me as I walk down the street of a neighborhood whose children once hurt me and some, continue to do so. I can’t take feeling helpless. I can’t look at the cracks and smile. I break silently. I can’t stand to be in my own skin. The people I’ve been…for them, I level with the demons. I fight them for the people who can be. I strike out at them savagely. I become one, and in those moments, I feel human. I feel whole. I feel strong. To take the essence of all the terrible emotions that are bred into me by my demons, to take the spawn of those demons…and channel them. To fuse with them, straight down to the marrow of my bones. The bones that creak under stress, that creak under the weight of the lives unlived. That is my fight, that is my calling and passion in life right now. So simply if it was discomfort that ailed me, no issue could be found here. To just accept it would be to make peace. But my dear Reader, the problem lies deeper than that. I feel as if I had a knife, I could try to carve it out of me. But alas, I could not. The pain and suffering in which to get to the area inside, its humble abode from which it radiates from, would unleash the countless hells that I’ve harbored in response to the complexities of the world. I would unleash feelings that I guard inside, feelings that are as old as the tress that have silently watched the birth and rise of man as the earth quaked in disturbance. These feelings are in a place that seems so untouchable that the dark recesses of a human mind seem playful, yet to propose that is pretentious.

But when your solution–your crutch because you cannot make peace with reality–is stripped away from you by natural consequence of reckless abandon, you are left in a vicious state. You’ve only known what it is to walk as a bi-pedal yet one leg has been taken from you. Feelings of residual impending doom start to pool like blood and acid in mangled and torn bundles of muscle fibers. You get heavier and heavier with each breath. Take a breath, hold it. Try to take another breath. That is every waking moment of your life as it spins ever on in quiet chaos. Perpetually, people pass you up. Like a stranger in a throng of people on a sidewalk all pulsating in a central direction; a huge mass all concerned with the business of life just shoving past you, unaware that you’ve just overdosed on an emotion you were once addicted to: hopelessness. Addiction isn’t black and white, you can NOT want what you’re addicted to but still come back to it. But now it’s seemingly too late, your tolerance was low and Life slipped you another one.

That bitch. You trusted her.

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2 responses to “

  1. J

    Living with the knowledge of what could have been and what still could be doesn’t change that you are living a valid life right now. You’re no less worthy of attention and care than you would be if you liked yourself a little better. Please be gentle when looking inward; you know yourself better than anyone, and I believe you owe yourself compassion.

    • After meditating on this comment for so long, I believe you to be right: I should be gentle when looking inward and exercise self-compassion. To arrive at a state in which I consistently do so seems that it’d take a significant amount of persistence and determination. How to arrive at such a state, what say you?

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