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I've pretty much been having a breakdown for the past few days. There's nobody to call. Nowhere to go. Just wave after wave of pain and torment. Everything feels so heavy. The weight of holding everything inside is crushing. My soul is screaming but I can't let it out or I wouldn't stop.

I long for release. Laying in bed feels like walking a tightrope. I can feel the tension snaking across my face like bony fingers. Under my eyes, across my forehead, behind my ears.

My heart is overflowing with so much regret for a life unlived. Stolen by trauma and lost to time. Everything feels like an impossible dream. But if I am the dreamer, what keeps me asleep?

This can't be my life. But it is. But it can't be. But it is. Back and forth. The never ending struggle, balanced on a knife edge in perfect equilibrium.

The only way to escape is to shed my skin, raw and exposed, and terrifying. I have no strength as I spiral inward, like Alice down the rabbit hole. I tumble deeper, head over heels, faster and faster until the light is but a pinprick.

Here in the dark where the real me lies. A dark soul who carries the pain of a thousand aeons and the memory of a million regrets. It burns in its embrace and I long for it to squeeze tighter until it takes my last breath.

I feel twisted laughter clawing at my throat. I feel the unspoken words ripping my heart. Fool, idiot. Disgusting. Monster.

Monster. I am a monster. I am the monster that I've spent 20 years hiding from, and running from. I've faced it, I've fought it. But I've never won.

It keeps me prisoner inside this tortured body. It relishes my tears. The laughter roars in my head keeping me awake in the night. It's always there from the moment I open my eyes the next day. No escape. Trapped forever with never-ending horrific realisation. I summon what little strength is left in this body-prison to seek my reflection through dissociated mist. The darkness wraps my heart and looks out from behind my eyes. The deafening roar suddenly silenced as I see the real me staring into my soul.
I guess I use writing as an outlet, though it doesn't always flow as often as I'd like. I never really know what I'm going to write or how much. I just start and see what comes out. I don't often get the chance to talk out loud so I suppose this is a way to have a voice.

Being as isolated as I am, I often feel like I am disappearing. I suppose this is how I try to keep connected to the world. It's not much, but grasping at the last threads left keeps me from spinning into oblivion. I never imagined a year ago that I'd be back in this torturous position. I had all these plans on how I'd fend off the fallout from the 20 year anniversary of my abusive past. I never for a moment dreamed that the pandemic would arrive, and at the worst time possible to put me right back in the place that I was before I found my redemption.

The fact is, so many places here are still closed. There's nothing out there for me. All I have here is my cat, video games and Netflix. I try to pretend that I don't need people, company, but I know it's not true. But it's not like I can go out anywhere to meet people right now, and whenever I've tried in the past, my aspie awesomeness repels friendships as effectively as the pandemic. My whole life has been spent unwillingly social distancing, no matter how much I've tried. I used to do all the right things but I always seemed to lack that key component that caused people to actually want to be friends. But then I do have the social skills of a lemon, so it's hardly surprising.

I wish I could drive, and afford a car. I long to get in the car and drive. The last real holiday, other than suicide expeditions, was 12 years ago. I wonder what it's like to be a normal person who gets to do things like go on holiday.

I've never known the life of those in the middle, having only ever hovered on the fringes, looking in. I don't know what it's like to make plans to go out for dinner, or to the cinema with people, or even just meet for coffee. All these simple pleasures are just not part of my outcast repertoire. I'm not meant to be that kind of person. That much is clear. But I can't say I enjoy the solitude, at least not this extreme level.

Well.. there it is. My pity party rant. I'll stop before the miniature violins start playing. They're never in tune anyway.


Well-Known Member
OUCH as i read your soul being unearthed, I relate to alot of your words .
i dare to not even look out the window for triggers .everytime i get positive a demon is always there to pull me down .
god bless your soul .


The Storm King
Safety & Support
SF Supporter

I, for one, would consider myself in august company if we ever met for coffee.

There are probably many others who would feel the same :)

I know for many there is more to not being able to go out than just giving one's self permission. However, I just wanted to cast an opposing vote to what your head is telling you about yourself right now. You truly are awesome and shouldn't think anything less!
I've thought about writing a semi autobiography a few times, but I could never get the feel right. It would either end up as a woe is me rant, or be so matter of fact that it was completely unengaging. I love words. I love shaping them, but I have zero ability to structure which makes writing pieces of length pretty much impossible. If I had any amount of imaginative thinking, I would have loved to be a writer, but it sadly wasn't to be.

@Ineluki I would love to grab a coffee (tea.. always tea!) with you. Maybe one day eh?

I can't help but feel that I live in the wrong place.. although I don't entirely know where the right place is. I wish I could take my house and transplant it someplace else. Preferably next to an open ice rink!

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