My Personal Demons

This is the beginnings of a memoir. All of it is completely true sadly, but I hope you enjoy it anyways.

Not very many people have had the misfortune of grieving themselves. People usually define grieving as a  process that happens after someone dies. Most people think of this concept in physical terms- i.e. when the body dies and the person is no longer alive. I am also dead, or at least a part of me is. I am grieving myself. I long for the life that I once had; I wonder how my life could be different. I’m depressed and I have anxiety and because of that I push people away. I don’t do it to be rude or mean: it just happens. Sometimes I sit by myself and wonder if I’m resigned to a life alone. Everyone leaves. It isn’t an exaggeration merely a statement of fact. Everyone that I have ever loved has left me for no reason they just up and left.  I feel as though I am a negative cloud and people despise me for it. I wonder if people want to love me but decide they can’t because I’m just too hard to love. I don’t mean to be a complainer but I am because most of my life is just a stew of negative soup with hints of sun glimmering at the surface.

I am a prisoner. I’m a prisoner of my own mind. Every morning I wake up and just want to stay in bed; every night I go to sleep wanting to die, planning on how I could end everything. I think about all the people who have ever left me. The ones that wanted to leave and the ones that didn’t. I know that I shouldn’t feel so sorry for myself because that just isn’t a healthy way to live, but I can’t help it. I think about all the reasons that people had for leaving. I was a s**t, I’m worthless, you must have wanted it, you’re a killer. The last one is usually the one that I end up dwelling on. I am a killer. Technically speaking I’ve killed three people in my life. The first time it was an accident, but the second and third time I willingly killed them, the unborn children that I was carrying. I didn’t want them. I didn’t want to be constantly reminded of what He did to me. The months of constant abuse- which I still haven’t come to terms with. Everyone says forget it, move on, you should’ve defended yourself better, it was probably your fault; what were you wearing? When I told my dad what He did to me, I was called a worthless s**t and told to stop spouting lies. I was told by my own father that I was a fat cow and I probably threw myself on Him. Well, I didn’t. I didn’t want any of it, yet it all eats away at me. It erodes my resolve to live like water to a rock. I would like to think that I'm being weathered, made into something more beautiful, but the reality is that I just get more mangled and deranged, and I don't want to fight against the water anymore; I want to welcome it and drown in its mercy depths.