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.
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.
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.
“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.
This is the confusion.
I need to want help.
I want to need help.
But I just don’t know what is what.