Sack of broken glass

I am a sack filled with shards of glass cutting the cloth that holds me together.

Anyone that tries to help stitch and patch this casing closed gets cut.

Please, keep your distance.

I don’t say this because I don’t want your help.

I need it.

I just don’t want for you to bleed too.

Sometimes it’s easier to convince yourself that you are destined for this depressive state of being.

Actually most times.

Because hope is a slack rope slippery swaying waiting for you to fall.

Mantra.

I’ve had all kinds of mantras to muffle the sound.

But mantras turn monotone and I just can not handle these monotonous silent drillings of doubt.

I think that’s what it is.

Doubt.

Or perhaps an imposter syndrome.

Or maybe it’s just me being who I’m meant to be in this moment?

Maybe this is a broken step, proverbial Jonah, to keep me in this state to find me?

Let’s go back a little.

Imposter syndrome.

“The persistent inability to believe that one’s success is deserved or has been legitimately achieved as a result of one’s own efforts or skills.”

I guess it’s just a clever way of saying doubt.

But also there isn’t much success in my step.

I’ve removed the mirror in my room.

I can’t stand the reflection.

I can’t stand the look I give me.

Imagine someone you look up to who only looks down on you.

Well my dead image looks down on me,

Judging me before I see everybody else.

I am honestly lost.

I am lost in a deeply dark small room.

In a darkness that light cannot penetrate.

In a room so small and tight that I can not move.

I get anxious.

As I flex to break free I break and tear me more than I was before,

With the walls whispering:

Don’t fight me.

Don’t find me.

But do.

This is the confusion.

I need to want help.

I want to need help.

But I just don’t know what is what.

mE