Who am I?

Who am I? I've changed.  Where have I gone? I'm not the same. There are differences in me. Some are good, some bad.  I'm more forgiving, understanding, and patient.  However, I'm more vain, proud, and jealous.  I don't like the new me.  She doesn't fit in with my old friends. She feels distant and alone even though my friends surround her.  Where is the frivolous carefree spirit I used to know?  Who is this solitary mourning stranger?  She acts more how she should or how society thinks she should than how she really wants to.  She pretends to be happy and strong when really she is suffering a frail.  The weight pressing on her seem too much at times and at times the past she left tears at her weak heart.  She doesn't want to fight, but I want her to so she does.  She wants to run, but I tell her stay so she does.  She doesn't want what she does and want what she doesn't.  She may do as I say, but not without pain.  I look in the mirror and her pretty face smiles at me.  I shake my head. Those aren't my eyes. That's not my smile. She's not happy. That's not me. She doesn't even care about me.  She is pulling me away from those I love.  She's lost, but she won't face it.  She doesn't know where to go.  She has no mortal ties.  She doesn't want them.  The is incapable of loving and giving love.  Her feelings are strange to me.  She is deceptive and selfish.  She is cunning and manipulative.  Her heart is heavy, weighed down by sorrow and pain.  Grief ensnares her and reigns over her.  She can't escape.  She has no power, but the power she has over me.  She is drowning in the darkness of the world.  It fills her mouth and nose.  It chokes the life out of her.  She isn't me. I want to help those I love.  I don't want them to drown like she does.  I want them to find the happiness that escapes her.  She could care less what happens to them.  She could care less about what happens to me.  She doesn't respect me and she doesn't respect herself.  She hates me and she hates herself.  She trusts no one, not even herself.  She is wrong.  She isn't me.  I am no her, and yet she is the one who greets me when I peer into the mirror.  She gives me her fake cover smile that doesn't reach her cold uncaring eyes.  She is alone and is too proud to have it any other way.  She feeds off the misery and pain of others like a parasite.  I am her host.  My mind my be ill, but she is my disease.  She is the depression and anxiety.  She is the loneliness and despair.  The tears that fall may be mine, but they are no product of mine.  They are a product of her.  She is miserable thus all she produces is misery.  Sometimes while I sit and ponder she grows bored and vacates me for a time.  It's times like those, times like now, that I remember myself.  I fear that when she returns I will forget all of this.  She won't let me remember it.  I will never again be my true self.

Comments

  1. Whitney, I love you.
    The only power she can have over you is power you give her. You are so strong and wonderful, and you can get through this.
    Chin up. Remember to breathe and keep going. We know the real you, and we miss you. Just keep fighting this and come back to us as soon as you can.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The Oogle Google Google of Time

A lot on my mind...

Thought burst