Guilty of being me

Well, it was inevitable.

The highs always hand you over to the lows and the lows are full of little papercut lies that scratch at your surface and worm their way inside. The more often you let them in, the more they become a part of you.

Last night was fun and as far as comedowns go, this is more of a gentle tumble down a grassy slope than my usual plummets into hell but the familiar heartsickness is humming away in the background, reminding me of the many days I once spent staring blankly at walls in lonely apartments, telling myself what a bad person I was.

It’s a self-inflicted suffocation that clutches at your airways, closing them off for a few moments as the panic rises and drags you under the maelstrom of chemicals you’ve imbalanced in your search for the answers to yourself.

The fact that you have nobody else to blame just makes it worse. You deserve this, you know?

There’s been a long line of people who have told me what a failing and flawed person I am, but none have told me as often or as brutally as I have told myself. Tonight, I’m ignoring that wine-soaked voice and reminding myself that nobody got hurt.

Not even me.

I can’t be anyone except myself, even those ugly parts of me that nobody likes. I can’t keep making myself small to avoid inconveniencing other people, particularly when they’re probably not even asking me to. I don’t just walk on eggshells, I’m the one who places them there.

The drinking has never been the problem, merely a symptom of this disease of worthlessness that I’ve carried untreated for decades. The problem with the drinking was always the self-destruction it was powered by, and nowadays, I’m not really out to destroy myself, just to understand myself, and learn how to cope with the brain I’ve been dealt.

I have to admit, for all its flaws and idiosyncracies, it does occasionally have some great ideas.