I hate myself so much that I can't even stand to be comforted. It all sounds like mockery, or like someone's unwillingness to see the truth. Or worse, someone who doesn't care enough to tell me the truth.
I desperately want something to soothe the pain. To hear a familiar voice that will calm me, soothe me, restore me. There is no such thing. And if there were, I have no idea what I'd want it to say. Every compliment would ring hollow, every encouragement would be a reminder of the things I haven't done for myself.
What do you do when even the words "I love you," bite like a whip, because someone who could love such a horrendous creature, is far too good to deserve all the heartache and pain and extra effort their connection would bring.
There is a war. I scream inside, hoping that my cries will call to the hearts of others. so I can finally rest in the knowledge that I am not alone. I can dream of using my voice as a way to join with others, creating the blissful harmony of true connection. On the other hand, I know the scarlet letters that mark my skin. Pariah. Failure. Invalid. Disabled. And I would rather slice my skin and bleed my penance a thousand times over, than drag those who are genuinely good into the mire of my tainted existence.
I would start to cry, but there's already more than enough rain.
I'm supposed to know better. To think better. To do better.
But right now, rock bottom seems to be my very best.
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