Is there a wrong way to heal? When I say it like that it doesn’t feel so bad. People keep telling me not to isolate, talk to someone, go to a meeting. But the less I think about the pain, the less I want to punch someone’s head.
Everything gives me bad memories. I find myself avoiding such triggers everywhere I go. I never want to go back to that place. Of helplessness, of isolation so consuming that I don’t even have my own thoughts to keep company.
Therapy can’t lift the rug on the crypt that dwells beneath my facade. How can one analyze the words I refuse to speak? But still I find the need to mine the words that capture my darkest moments. If I can put that pain into writing I can release it into a prison that doesn’t taunt my will to live. An enduring snapshot of the shell I outgrew.
Or maybe I’m thinking about this all wrong. Meetings aren’t about me. Fellowship doesn’t revolve around me. When I stay home sulking and trying to think of kewl things to write, I’m only thinking about me. I guess I’m just being selfish; efusing the hand that feeds me as I disintegrate on torrid grounds, thirsting for companionship and craving the bread of wisdom.
If it’s selfishness that is dragging me down then I am at war with myself. Off with her head I tell you. She is a plague and a stumbling block. Show her no mercy. She must be cleared from thy path.
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