Knowledge

I figured out a part of my problem today: I have love in my heart, but no one else wants a part in it. The absence of any love is better than the presence of mine, every time. I can write all I want. People will read; some will see my love. Some might even think fondly of me or my writing, but when verse meets flesh, everything falls apart. People see me for what I am: a love-starved monster worthy of pity or contempt. I can hold my past to the light. I can write about the strong things, the beautiful things, the thoughtful things, but in the end, I'm still a monster. Look at me; see how I've changed. There's nothing left here but pain and solitude. Make no mistake, I am alone. Patmos will read and perhaps respond in empathy. Some of the rest that read, and they are precious few, will protest, and deny my monstrosity. For those I have a simple question: when was the last time you tried to talk with me? Not me calling you. Not me instant messaging you. Not me writing you a poem. Not a letter, not an email, not even one of my kind hellos. When was the last time any of you talked to me first? I tell all my friends, and you know who you are, that my phone is always on for you. I can't remember the last time someone called me. Normally, I might be angry at this, but I'm not. I finally figured it out. I am a monster; it takes too much effort to know me. I should see your silence as a blessing: you're not telling me to shut up and go to hell where I belong.

When I was in high school, undiagnosed, I was happy alone. I need to find that place again, for my own sanity's sake. For eight years, I've fought to make you, any of you, understand. That understanding will never happen. I took three tranquilizers last night, and I slept for a long time. It was beautiful. I think I'll take more tonight. The challenge of my medicated solitude finally presented itself to me. It's very tempting to ease it along. If you're worried about me, don't. I don't make suicide threats. I make suicide promises. This is neither. I'm just coming to terms with eight years of wasted time, effort, and breath.