Swamp water

My mind feels stagnant. I need someone to drain this swamp water out of it, to open the window, to let in fresh air. I tried opening the window myself, but the air outside is just as bad as the air inside. The cold, muddy, and misty air is terrorizing. The smell of cigarettes makes me want to vomit. The oblivion of the unfortunate creatures lurking in the dark, broken streets saddens me. They don’t see what I see; therefore, I can’t speak to them—they don’t understand what I say. I feel mute, and they all seem blind. How is it possible that I used to live among them?

It hurts to let myself think these things, but maybe it’s time to let them out, openly. Maybe—just maybe—a very crazy thought; but maybe I was never insane. Maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe being in this swamp for 18 years is what drove me to insanity. I never felt like one of them. I never felt like one of anyone. It was always me against someone—mostly everyone. They’d blame it on teen rage, anger issues, or mental problems. But looking back on it now, as detached as I could possibly get, I see there was nothing wrong with me. Absolutely nothing wrong with me.

I tried so hard to be like them. I tried to smile and obey. I tried to wear colors. I tried to dye my hair. I tried to wear makeup. I tried to care about fancy clothes. I tried to starve myself so they’d think I was more like them. I tried going out, drinking, being reckless. I tried to show them I’m human, just like them. But none of these ever worked out for me. None of these ever felt like me.

I only feel myself when I’m plain, black, boring, and distant. This is my real skin. It threatens them, it scares them, it makes them feel uncomfortable and uneasy. I feel it. I feel the shift in the room when I walk in. I feel the threat they perceive. When I was younger, I’d worry, and I wouldn’t understand where it came from, so I’d get scared too. Until I realized—it’s me. It’s always been me. I spend most of my life avoiding eye contact because the moment I look certain people in the eye, they flinch.

Coming back here—to the past—with my mind from the future in this present moment always catches me off guard. Every time I return, I have newfound faith that things will be different, that I will react differently. To be fair, I’ve made a tiny bit of progress—at least now I’m aware of every single little thing about everything and everyone. I’ve contemplated the hell out of this situation. I’ve come back to it a million times, replaying the same roles over and over, again and again.

Now I know how things go. Now I know that when someone pulls the trigger, I should just let the bullet flow right through me, clench my jaw, and wait for the pain to pass. Eventually, the wounds heal. I’m young, and I heal faster than the people who hurt me. That’s why I know it’s better to sacrifice myself than to risk changing the plot and end up hurting them.