10/30/08
I had hoped that this would have an effect similar to that of cleansing a wound, of forcing out the pus and cutting away the decaying tissue to save what’s left underneath. But the more I dig, the more rot I find. The infection has spread far beyond what I had believed.
You know, no one really knows me. It seems rather melodramatic to say, but it’s true. I don’t feel close to anyone, even those who I would call my closest confidants. They don’t know what I write here. They don’t know that person, the one I keep hidden away for when I’m alone. I am someone else entirely, someone who is brave and confidant and a fucking stoic pillar of strength through everything. I am the strong one, the steady one, ME, the STEADY one! They have all built their homes upon the sand, but what can they do?
When I was 17, my sister was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and dropped out of college and I hated her for it. Because, after that, I was the “sane” one. The “normal” one. The “good” one. I didn’t try to jump out of cars. I didn’t overdose. And when I cut myself, I didn’t let everyone know. I had the decency to keep my “disorder” to myself. I was healthy, if only by comparison, and I found it amazing how quickly everyone was willing to forget that I had ever been sick at all, and to force upon me this mantle of normalcy…because we couldn’t both be fucked up because it was breaking my parents’ hearts. I would have done anything to relieve their guilt. I did everything I could.
I did everything I could.
Was I jealous of her? In many ways, yes. I resented that she had been allowed to give up her responsibilities when I had had to struggle on with my perfect g.p.a., my perfect façade. I hated that I could lay awake until the wee hours of the morning, with the knife pressed against my throat, praying for the strength to do what I needed to do, only to rise and dress for my 7 A.M. class, in perfect form—while SHE got to rest, to recuperate.
But I knew that we were different. That I was stronger. That I could look my demons in the eyes and give them a good solid “fuck you”. That even when I felt that the effort of getting through another day was going to kill me, I knew I could do it anyway. Because someone had to.
I will rise above. And I will keep digging, and digging, and digging until there’s nothing left, if I have to. I will clean myself of this infection. Or I will die in the process. But I have let it all fester too long.
I too hid behind the mask of strength & was never comforted.
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