I’m sick.

I’m sick. Physically, mentally and spiritually. There is genuinely something fundamentally wrong or lost within in. Something that is present within a majority of the people around me. Sometimes I feel alien, sometimes I feel wrong, sometimes I feel broken. Sometimes I feel. Most of the time I don’t. I’ve spent so many nights — begging, pleading, groveling in any shape or form I knew. Crying, whining, complaining, questioning. What was wrong with me? What made me different? Why am I different? Why me? Why can’t I be normal. It breaks my heart. It makes me feel unmade, it makes me feel incomplete, it makes me feel abandoned. I’ve always been abandoned. I’ve always been the one to be thrown away, discarded, tossed to the side and forgotten. Within recent years I’ve found that I’ve become the one with the dagger, the one with the boot. It doesn’t make me any better, it doesn’t make me feel better, it doesn’t do anything for me. But I do it. It’s not a defense, I don’t fear being hurt. I don’t fear being hurt again. I’m always hurting. Physically, mentally, spiritually. I’m always in anguish. I’m always in pain. Please God I don’t know what to do. Please Dad I miss you. Please Mom forgive me. Why me?

Why can I not simply exist? Why can I simply not live? Why is every second of my day spent like this? A repeated cycle of clawing my way up the caves of my mental space and falling as I get caught on sharp-jagged-edges. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve tried to rationalize it. Other people have told me. From psychiatrist to doctor, from mother to father, from teacher to classmate. Autism? Sickle Cell? A need to toughen up? The lack of being grateful? Talkative? Annoying? All these labels, all these titles, all these tags. All this data. It roams around my head banging against the cave walls like a bat without a voice. A blind man with no cave. No direction, no signal. I’m broken, I’m unfinished, I’m mental.

Connection.

I so desperately want to know what it feels like. I so desperately want to plug myself with another. I so desperately want to feel comfortable with someone, with something, in someplace, at any time. But I can’t. I simply can’t. I don’t know how. I don’t know why. I want to connect. I want to not worry about my performance. If the audience is immersed, if the director in my head will find a fault. How long can I keep the play running? Sometimes I want to burn the stage on fire. Snuff the flame.

Rememberance / Forgetting.

I can’t remember. I can’t forget. I try to go back to times of youth, but all I see are faces. All I see are flashes. All I hear are screams, yells. All I feel are their hands on me. It’s either a lashing or something… inappropriate. It’s either a hug that feels devoid of love and affection or a glare of disgrace. Sometimes. Only sometimes. Will I hear a giggle, will I see myself smiling. I only see him in some pictures. A small, fragile, smile. The pictures are cute to others, but only I know just how I felt even so young. How it felt to wipe the blade against my wrist and ankles. How it felt trying to bang my head against the wals until I was normal. How it felt covering my ears as I sat in the corner, crying. How it felt getting between adults as they fought and argued. Only I remember the first feelings of my first escapes. First it was games, then it was the porn, then it all went downhill from there. I don’t know if I ever want to remember everything that happened. All I can do is make sure the future is better. For the little me. For the tiny me.

Addiction.

Mother. Am I still your baby? If you knew just how broken I am. If you knew just how bad my pain felt. If you heard what ran through my head on a daily basis. Would I still be your son? If you knew how many times I cursed and prayed to God for your death. If you knew how many times I imagined you and dad dying in an accident that left me with a wealthy, happy, family. Would you still see me as the child you raised.

Why do you look at me like that? When you picked me up from the hospital and I told you how they treated me, why was your first assumption that there was a problem with me? Mom, am I still your baby? Please. Say yes. I love you mom.