I feel dirty, small. Vile. I’m drowning in this filth that I can’t see; I feel it slick and cloying, wrapping me in its grime and suffocating me. I can’t tell up from down anymore. I have no discernible way out.
Shame. I watched it start to cover over me as I was driving home ten hours ago. I don’t know why or from where it came. It was just suddenly there and I was losing to it. Then I lost interest in winning. Lost interest in everything.
I have lots of shame. The one coating me tonight feels old. Original. From the very first time I knew the world would be better off without me. I was small then. I feel small now.
I hate that it owns me. That the things from back then still wreck my life. That I still let them.
There is no love here. In this room or this body or mind. There is loathing and rage and a sorrow so thick I can’t breathe beneath it.
I see myself. I am not a human being. I am sinew and bone and this block of shame where my heart might once have been. I am the things that cannot be warmed in the sun.
I start to shake. A light sweat breaks out along the ridge of my cheeks. I feel like throwing up. I imagine myself curling up on my bed and I watch as my body explodes, becomes millions of particles of dust, caught and absorbed by the air of this room. I disappear. I never existed. The sense of freedom I imagine in that moment makes this one feel all the more like prison. I can see the shackles on my wrists. I was five when they were placed.
Truth? What the fuck is truth? I should have died. If God were a compassionate being, I should have died when I was young. I should have been spared. There’s no hell awaiting the dead that could be worse than having to live.
I wish I were dead.