I have a confession.
It’s pretty easy for me to fall in love. I fall in love with every person I meet every day. I fall in love with strangers. I fall in love with characters. I fall in love with the idea of a person.
I fall in love with anything else because I hate myself. I don’t want to be me. I don’t like who I am. I don’t like how I think or how I look. I don’t like how I talk or how I carry myself. I hate who I am.
And hate is an understatement. I say that as I type with a swollen eye and a bloody gash on my elbow, injuries I gave myself in effort to silence the monster in my head.
It baffles me when people think highly of me, because I am a monster.
The word crazy gets thrown around casually when it comes to women, especially for trivial things like being jealous or clingy, but those are just natural emotions involved with being in love. You see, I am actually crazy. Few people get to see because you have to be able to peel back many many layers of my heart to awaken the monster.
I don’t like the monster. She slashes with razor sharp talons and her teeth rip wholes into my heart. She lives in my head and sometimes I want to kill her. Today I punched myself in the head so many times that my eye swelled, because she wouldn’t shut up. I don’t remember how I cut my arm open.
Crazy is not trivial. It is very real and painful. I’m very ashamed of my mental illness. I hate it. I don’t want attention. I want it to go away. I want to be someone else. I don’t want to be the monster.
She has been coming out a lot lately, because I’m in pain. She feeds off my tears and misery, off my insecurities and failures. And lately, I’ve been doing everything I can to numb the pain.
But the wounds she gave me are too deep to numb. They need to heal, and the only one that can do that is the one person that knows her best…