What's Wrong With Me? (A Prologue)

[Serena_Charlotte]

Is it so hard to answer? What is wrong with me?
There are stares everywhere, judgmental, harsh stares, and they pronounce a thousand deaths on me. Do they mean me to see their cruelty? Or, even worse, do they think they’re hiding it?
I can barely hold on to the last remain vestiges of my sanity, seeing eyes everywhere I go, hyperaware of the movement of my hands, my eyes, my lips.
Because there are eyes everywhere and they pronounce cruel sentences on me, dooming me forever to face the worst of it: my own mind and its delusions and morbid imaginations.
All I could ever want is an honest hand, pulling me off the ledge, telling me exactly what goes on behind those cruel, cruel eyes.
Then maybe one day they could finally tell me exactly what’s wrong with me.
They say that forgiveness shows a true strength of will, but I’ve done it so many times and the weight of my own body is often to heavy for me to bear. So what’s in forgiveness when they just turn their backs and do it all over again? And with each passing offense, as my tolerance sinks lower and lower until it’s my cruel eyes turning on them, I find my mind at the bottom of a well, thinking, “Why not just be honest?” And then I am.
But it never works.
And I end up alone.
Even though I’m the one who sacrificed everything for them.
Even though I’m the one who gave them my forgiveness, my unconditional love, my loyalty.
In return for nothing.
For abandonment.
For pain.
And for those cruel, cruel eyes.
And as I’m caught in the whirlpool of my own paranoia, telling myself to never trust another person again, I’m caught in another net, giving my all for someone yet again.
And the story repeats.
Because the worst person of all is me.
The worst person is the one that can’t let go, the one that throws their heart at a rosebush trusting that the petals will catch it, surprised every time by the thorns underneath as the weight of my heart pushes through the fragile petals.
And again I think, “What is wrong with me? Can nobody tell me?” But my voice echoes against the walls of my empty mind, unable to make its way to the beyond, the real world. I pick myself up thinking, “This time. This time, someone will listen to my voice.” But there’s no one.
And I can’t help but think. “What’s wrong with me?”
The worst part is the end, the total resignation, the hatred of all things affectionate. Then through all that, there is still that niggling feeling in the tips of my fingertips and my shoulders, the desire to touch and be touched.
Is it too much to ask?
Watching the crowd as I walk alone in a busy street, the only interaction the violent shoulder bumps of people as they push by to stay next to their friends in the crowded lane. And the feelings extends from my fingertips to my palms, my shoulders to my chest. Is it too much to ask for a comforting hug?
As the light fades from my mind, the warmth in my chest subsiding to something cold and foreign, I settle into this new persona. I become one with the lonely voice in my head, padding the walls of my empty mind with visions of fantasy and stories yet to be told.
Finally, I am able to forget the pain and my naivete, settling into a new routine of calculated loneliness.
But then I saw him.
And all I could think…
“What’s wrong with me?”

[Unibird3]

I believe the line between insanity and creativity is very thin and maybe not even exist. Sometimes you have to be insane to create a masterpiece. Sometimes you can't really truly create something without being first insane. Thank about everything around us. Boats, cars, airplanes and trains, hoverboards, cars that park themselves or drive themselves....the list can go in forever. For some of these things it had to take insanity to think of it and then create it. Think of an airplane that glides in the sky on engine fans and wings for balance and gliding. You're completentrust in relying on those engines to not fail. You're thousands of kilometers in the air and you sont have wings to fly yourself to safety of the plane crashed or feet like bird to land safely without breaking bones. Insanity and creativity work hand in hand in my opinion.

In response to the reality question I believe some people imagine life a different way from the true reality because it's easier to have a more positive outcome. For instance the reality of a poor girl is that she's homeless and hungry and scared. She lives get life imagining being adopted, having a home and food to eat so she walks around smiling and pretending everything is okay. Pretending that she's happy and living her life in luxury. I think we all sometimes ignore the true reality because it's just to painful.

[Pop irene]

This is amazing. These words truly hit close to home. I know the feeling. The feeling of wanting acceptance but no ones willing to accept. The feeling where you’re alone in this cruel game they call life. It’s like everything you touch vanishes into nothingness. It hurts. I know the feeling. I love how whole heartedly this was written no feelings held back. Thank you for granting me with a sense of comfort, a sense where I don’t feel so alone.

[Zora C Penter]

Powerful energy throughout, but these lines in particular hit me hard:

"The worst person is the one that can’t let go, the one that throws their heart at a rosebush trusting that the petals will catch it, surprised every time by the thorns underneath as the weight of my heart pushes through the fragile petals"

[Nicholas Williams]

Deep insane and thought provoking. I particularly love your ending as it keeps one still thinking, hanging, and in suspense. Good use of flow of emotions and imagination as well.

I look forward to some more ethereal experience in your future writeups.