I am the monster of every story. Every time I look at myself, it is like I am having an out of body experience and I ask myself, “How did I get here? Where did that large automobile come from? Is that sexy man in the bed my husband? Whose house am I in? How come I didn’t get any mail today and what did I do to deserve this?” I can’t identify with the person in the mirror, even though I know that she is me, but I don’t feel attached to her. I have dark secrets that I keep caged inside of me and they keep trying to scratch their way out. I used to be able to hide these feelings under my bed, or keep them in the closet, but the ugly beast got out of control and there is no escape from the nightmare that I am living.
Maybe this comes from a past life that I lived, one where I had to survive in a world where I was forced to kill or else, I would have been killed and I had to compete to survive. These vicious thoughts remain with me, and I am certain that I retained the ability to kill others. My world is filled with inner struggles and impulses that I am not able to ignore. Maybe I should just stop looking in the mirror and trying to overanalyze everything. I see the devil on one of my shoulders and the angel on my other shoulder is always fighting trying to flip the negative feeling to positive ones, but the devil seems to win out most of the time and my therapist never helps. I hurt myself and maybe if there was some one around to cuddle me, I wouldn’t be such a monster, but there is always a chance that I would hurt them also, so I am probably better off sulking in my own misery.
Written for Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie First Line Friday hosted by Dylan.