Monday, 5 January 2015

Dear Diary: Demented

Mad. That's what they used to say.

I never once denied it, only laughed. As if the pitiful act wasn't deplorably transparent. As if it masked the paroxysms of pain that had become an integrated part of my being and existence. As if it mitigated anything at all, in part or in whole.

Everyone is a little crazy inside, they say. But they have not the least pittance of an idea of what they so speak. The word has been so relegated, I know not if even a last vestige of its former meaning can be found. Voices, dreams, tears, played on repeat for years and years. 

"I understand," they say. 

What response should that elicit? I understand their kind intent, but " how feeble an attempt", is all I think. In fact, it is all I can think.

Have I not tried? Years and years of building up myself as a person. Looking for hobbies, things I could be good at. Baking, drawing, music, art. They kept my mind busy but were so utterly transitory in nature it was not long before reality came back, a living nightmare. I had prayed so hard for any means of divorce, even forms of illusionary escapism would have worked. But there was nothing.

I thought I could be strong enough, that I could will myself to step out of this dark, delirious world. But I was wrong, so horribly mistaken. Each time I take a step forward, something tugs me back a couple more steps. And it gets so draining, so debilitating... so damaging. And now I descry ahead of me a dark, depressing tunnel, turning back from which I see no end. 

I'm beginning to think I shall never escape.

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