I don't like me. In fact, I think I hate me. If I met me, before I knew me, I wouldn't like me.
How did I get to be this bitter bitch?
When I was a little girl, I was so frightened of everything. I cowered in my smallness. I hid between the pages of Stephen King, Charles Dickens and Edgar A. Poe. When I found alcohol, at the age of 15, I was free from fear. Physical fear, anyway. Alcohol was my best friend, until it betrayed me, and here is where my bitterness bleeds me, like everyone else had before it.
So, by some miraculous divine intervention, I was given a second chance to get my life back, break free of the bonds of the bottle., and so, I am.
For years, I felt strong. I lived a good life. I worked hard. I believed in something spiritual.
And then? Well, fuck. I built another prison around myself with my own hands. But this time, I made sure nobody, absolutely nobody but God could free me, and only with another divine miracle. Yet still, I could be happy. Still I prayed and hoped for that second, or one millionth intervention.
I was too busy erecting the walls of my new prison to see how my own body was breaking down, crumbling within itself. Another betrayal. Constant pain in my hands, weariness of my body and pain in my neck and lower back makes the statement 'Fake it till you make it' less entertaining. The facade is becoming too hard to maintain. I find myself lashing out at people instantly and then regretting it, not immediately enough though. I feel like the abusive boyfriend or girlfriend who does it over and over again, says sorry, promises not to do it again, and does.
My sense of humor is turning into something ugly. My childhood dreams bring me pain. Hope is a mist evaporating in the harsh reality of my life.
Like alcohol addiction, I feel powerless to stop the progression into depression and misery, and, I am ashamed to publically acknowledge, the twisted desire to make others miserable too. Too many times, I feel like I can't take it anymore. I just want to stop. I want it to stop.