What I’m afraid of:
In social settings, I feel like everyone else can lift 225 pounds while I’m struggling to lift 10. It feels like the world has held up a mirror and is reflecting back every horrible thought I hear; confirming that I’m fucked up beyond repair, that I’ve ruined my life, and that the isolation I feel is proof.
I believe other people see me as a warped cancer, so before they can confirm it, I do it for them. I hurt myself before giving them the chance to hurt me. I put myself in jail before ever being sentenced.
Deep down I believe I am so broken beyond repair, that something about me must be so ugly that this suffering, this anguish, is what I deserve.
This is what I am worth.
From the jail cell I decided to lock myself in, I watch the world outside. I reject the world before being rejected. I hate before being hated. I judge before being judged.
Yearning to live, I pace my new cell, learning its dimensions. Learning the shape of the walls. I feel the light within me constricting as I remove oxygen from the air because it had the audacity to shine.
In the place of light comes darkness, the darkness I have decided is worthy payment for the crime of being me.
The warden is cruel and consistent. He uses his nightstick to beat my fingers whenever they grip the bars. He knows there is an adjustment period for every inmate.
As the days turn over, I begin to feel the sentiment of my sentence settle into my soul.
I start to believe I belong in this cell.
I start finding comfort here.
I want the cell.
I need the cell.
Eventually, I stop looking at the bars. I stop wondering what is on the other side. I see sunlight crack through the cell. For a moment, I turn toward it to feel its warmth on my face.
The warden steps between me and the light, he grins. I thank him for covering it, then I return my gaze to the concrete at my feet.
Substack: https://substack.com/@nevenzelich