The Crazy. in Musings

The questions linger. I hear them repeat themselves in my mind. Over and over.

On the outside I’m a ball of sunshine.
On the inside I’m so consumed with the balancing act of keeping up a happy demeanor and falling completely apart.

Maybe, just maybe, I’ve used so many drugs in my life that my mind just doesn’t function unless it’s ruminating.

Am I crazy? Am I normal? Do I need anti-depressants? Then I think—if you question if you are crazy, then doesn’t that mean that you are not crazy? A crazy person by definition is a person who doesn’t know that they are mentally unstable, but don’t they? Or maybe they do know they are and can’t seem to find a way out of there box.

I wish that at some level I didn’t self-destruct the way that I do. I chip away at my fingers until they are bloody and sore, then I drink to relieve my tension, but not in a normal way. Then I want to function, so I down amphetamines, but then I’m too elated and I drink more, until I pass out.

On the outside of this box I inhabit, I am the happiest guy. I pay my bills. I work hard. And no one would ever suspect that I am insane. Where in my upbringing did it all go wrong? Was I not loved enough? Was I traumatized so much that I can no longer healthily cope. I’m scared of what will happen to me, but then again, I’m ready for the consequences of my abuse.

Once it all spews out like lava out of volcanoes, there’s very little to do but to watch it all harden onto the earth.

Did he love me? Why should I care? I was his literal punching bag. But was there any inkling of him left? And I always try to rationalize myself… I have the mind of an abused lover… As sick as it sounds, I’d rather feel the sting of his hand across my face, than this strange, unexplicable yearning and remorse.

Time is a fucking monster. Memories are fucking garbage. Feelings are useless. Yet, here I am reliving in the time of memories where my feelings were clear.

-Andy