Making The Pieces Fit

It's kinda hard for me to focus at the moment. My mind seems to be everywhere and nowhere, simultaneously.

Consciously, I grasp at the thoughts that I desire to bring forth. They are like smoke, whisping through my fingers.

But there are some solid thoughts, ones I don't care to grab onto right now. I can see them, arming themselves, setting detonation coordinates.

I know that the more I focus on these things, the more power I give them. So I try to focus elsewhere, where? If only the smoke were real, you'd smell the dust of it all. Dry, coarse, unforgiving.

My mind craves nicotine and for the moment, the bombs have disarmed. I wonder if I can use that to my advantage in this battle? That craving seems to outweigh most of my thoughts in general.

I kinda hate being this self aware. As I like to put it; I'm aware that I'm aware and I'm aware of that awareness.

To put that in basic English for anyone who may not understand.

I'm aware of my consciousness and how my mind works. I'm aware of most of my triggers and emotional trauma. I'm also aware of how I've lacked in action and how that creates further divide inside my mind. I'm aware of all of it. I can see myself, inside and out

"WHY DON'T YOU KNOW THAT YOU ARE MY CHILD

WHY DON'T YOU KNOW THAT YOU ARE MY MIND"

I'm aware I'm at the bottom. I'm aware that the only place left to go is up. I'm aware that change terrifies me. I'm aware that if I don't change, then I'll die like this. I'm aware that I don't want to die here, not like this.

But I'm also aware that I am sick, I'm aware of just how broken I am. I'm aware of all the ways I don't function like everyone else. I'm aware that it makes me feel less than human because if it.

I'm aware that I've also hurt people along the way. I'm aware that I wasn't really in control, yet at the same time I was. I'm aware that there are no excuses, that the ONLY appropriate response is change. A change that I'm aware of that seems to be so illusive to me.

I don't make excuses for myself. I know the things I've been through, I know the things I've done and I know a ton of regret fills my heart and it eats at me every single day, and I'm aware of exactly how hard it is for me to even begin to forgive myself.

I can forgive those who've hurt me, beat me, held me captive. I can forgive those who've abandoned me, left me all alone, stole everything from me.

But the hardest person for me to forgive is the reflection staring back at me. Because I don't see a human looking back at me. I see a monster, sub-human, garbage.

I'm aware of all of it. Very little remains secret inside my mind. Only things that my mind cut out. Old memories of times of the worst. Forgotten times of daily monotony. Things my mind determined I'd be better off not remembering.

Of all the things I'm aware of, it's the fact that I can't operate like everyone else, though the only real reason why that even matters is because I want someone I can spend the remainder of my life with, which I can't do. Because I can't function properly. The only reason I want that is because it's the only real form of love and connection I've ever known in my entire life. Which might sound sad, perhaps. But perhaps, this is exactly what I deserve.

Everyone tells me that there is a reason to my suffering, a greater plan at hand. I am not a noble man but I am above sacrificing someone to make a point.

I do not believe in such childish games. Nor do I reckon an ultimate being would find any entertainment in it. The things I've endured, the things I've put others through... it's nothing short of pure agony.

The ONLY reason to create something like me was for the sheer pleasure of watching someone hurt.

My foster mother knew that all too well. That's why she did the things she did to me. She knew my life was full of pain, so she added more. So much more.

Before I even had the chance to even live, I was already a ghost to the rest of the world. My scars and bruises mocked and shamed.

Would anyone blame me for turning out the way I did if they knew the extent of my torment? No. They'd wonder how I didn't turn out worse.

But not me. Because I know why I didn't turn out worse. I didn't want to become what my foster mother wanted me to be. Instead, I wanted to take everything she taught me and use it to get criminals off the streets.

I tried so hard to turn all that torture into something positive. But in the end, I failed. I never did become what she wanted me to be. But I couldn't be who I wanted to be either.

So I lived most of my life without a sense of identity. Pretty damn sure that's been true for my whole life, actually. I still don't know who I am. I'm not even sure that I care to know.

Love was my out. Love saved me from my rage. It saved me from my jealousy, from my controlling nature.

But it could never save me from myself. I'm aware of that.