Today my mind feels like a battleground more than ever. I guess it's the bizarre mix of input I got during my childhood that is to blame for it. On one hand my mother's propaganda, teaching me that I an outcast, not worthy of anyone's attention, some monster that has to lock itself up to protect itself from the world. On the other hand I have the one thing my grandfather taught me: You do not give up, not ****ing ever. Even if they drop a pile of paratroopers and a dozen halftracks on you (and I'm not speaking in crazyspeak here), you stand your ground. The man didn't have a full night's sleep for 60 years, and he never caved in, the day I give up I will let him down.
Today I went to a volunteer'ish organization thingy for those of us with mental issues. On the bright side, the aforementioned amazing girl hangs out there, that's a reason to go I reckon. On the other hand, it feels like a heavy blow, and that I've reached new levels of rock bottom - mariana trench style. I guess I'm really that broken, and there's no reason to pretend to be anything else anymore. The worst part about the visit was to let her see me as someone as maladjusted as this, some weak disgusting creature who can't handle life without support. On top of this it feels as if every sentence coming out of my mouth cements the fact that I'm an *******, I figure it is how I lie to myself, and assume I make others believe, that I'm better than them, or at the very least worth something. Or perhaps it is just the fear of discovering that someone can actually stand my company that makes me do it. Because if they did, I would have to live with the feeling that they are pretending. Maybe things would be better if I could simply embrace the fact that I need a hand, instead of biting every hand that tries to feed me.
This is rage. Not the sort you feel when your less gifted co-worker has broken your umpteenth pen. I truly wish that Montresor was indeed a tangible creature standing before me, merely so I could rip him apart and make him suffer the same way he makes me suffer. It is both exhausting and intoxicating. On one hand it feels as if I have a lump of rocks caught inside my chest, something heavy, yet not in the same way any earthly matter would be. On the other hand I feel stronger, like the lone wolf forced to fend off every danger on his own. The strange urge to howl at the moon to underline the point that this is my forest, my turf, and if Montresor or any of his henchmen dare to set foot in it they will be shown no mercy.
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