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.    

 

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September 25, 2009

I too hid behind the mask of strength & was never comforted.