Living. Part of me wants to put it to bed. Part of me wants it to go on forever. What a nasty dichotomy. This “Balrog” certainly has it’s own agenda — it has only one direction it wants me to take.
You’d be doing the world a favour if you ended. You really would. You at least avoided contributing to the gene pool — thank you for that, at least — but what are you still doing here? You contribute nothing important. You just confuse, get confused, hurt and get hurt.
That’s not my intent…
It’s unintentional, sure but the effect is what matters, not the intent. You know this!
Your continued existence is a thorn. You bring nothing useful, necessary, or liked. People will say otherwise but it’s because they feel it’s the kindest thing to do, and they are far greater people than you. None of them actually believe a word of it.
Maybe this is the offensive that ends me one day. Not the claws, not the teeth, not the acid spew, not the smashing or crushing or drawn out fighting — maybe it’s the quiet, insidious whispers. The murmurings quietly bubbling from it as it sleeps, or as it gently places its hand on my shoulder to croon in my ear, breathless and barely audible:
Look at you, how you gracelessly stumble about this life as though you belong here. You are so, so, so very faulty. Stupid, foolish, broken thing! You can do nothing ever quite exactly right, can you? Not the most basic of things. It’s no wonder they look at you so strangely.
But some really seem to be mostly ok with me, I remind myself. They accept me. Invite me, even!
Yes. Some are kind. Good. Benevolent. Generous. Tolerant. And what do you do?
My heart is sinking.
You take, you take, and you take some more. All you do is take. You give nothing of value. Nothing!
My throat is closing. My heartbeat stutters, palpitates. I think: I try to share! I try to give!
Your pathetic offerings are nothing anybody needs or wants. That you would think otherwise is laughable.
It (he? she?) is insidious and pervasive. I need to remember:
- Words can only harm me if I give them permission to.
- It can only harm me if I give it permission to.
- It isn’t even real!
- Just because I think or feel something, that doesn’t automatically make it true.
If I can just remember to remember, I’ll be better armed against its onslaught in this psychological warfare.
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