I have a horrible temper, which has been quite inflamed lately.
I don’t use the word ‘inflamed’ haphazardly. I mean it. Anything vile and disgusting that you associate with the word ‘inflamed’ applies to my temper. It’s gross. I get heated for no reason, and there’s nothing to punch. Or break. Or stab. Mostly because those would lead to a jail sentence, or at the very least parental disapproval, which would lead to more aggravation and hence a more inflamed temper.
There are many reasons why my temper goes haywire. Usually, they are not good ones. Most times, though, it’s a direct result of my incredible neurosis.
Why? Because my brain doesn’t stop churning out material for me to obsess about. No, that is not a humblebrag to hint that I am in any way intelligent. If I were intelligent, my brain wouldn’t ask half of the dumb questions it chooses to occupy itself with. Mostly at night. When I shouldn’t be thinking about anything. When I should be sleeping. Those are the times that my brain decides,
Hey! What if your mom died? Would you be sad? Now, what if your *Dad* died? Would you be sadder?
One side conjures up the answer, quickly smacked down by the other , which, luckily, has enough sense to say: “Umm, this is a *wildly* inappropriate line of thinking”. But by then, it’s too late. I’ve already seen the answer. I’ve expressed it, silently, and it got loud and echoed through the vaults and out through my ears, so loud that I question whether I actually heard the sound in the room or imagined it.
The hamster that turns the wheels of my cerebrum is blind, and deaf. So it doesn’t see the panic it’s causing. It doesn’t hear the alarm, or the screaming that occurs when my brain decides to take this hard left turn. It just keeps on jogging, thus mass producing thoughts that, really, should never, ever be thought.
I know you say you don’t care about what people think. But you do, right? Like, just a little bit. Right? Right? Come on, no one’s gonna know. Just tell me. You care. You know what’s worse than caring? Knowing they’re right. Don’t convince yourself they’re wrong about you. Because they’re not. At all. Ever. You’re pretending. You’re a pretender. A fake. Say it. Say you’re a fake!
I used to have imaginary friends as a child. Lots of them. Whole neighborhoods. And they still exist. In the darkest of hours, I retreat back to the familiar streets of my mind and lay low there. They comfort me. I stay there for days (years in make-believe time), getting reacquainted, living out lifetimes that are more to my liking than my current reality. I resurface occasionally to carry on a conversation, or answer a question my parents might ask, most likely to assure them that the glazed look in my eye is nothing to worry about. I’m not laughing…. I was? Oh, I remembered a joke. No, I can’t tell it.
Why do you even bother with real people? They’re not like the ones here. They’ll never be. *You’ll* never be like the ones out there. You don’t deserve to be well adjusted out there, anyway. Have you seen your track record? You suck at life. No, that’s too general. You’re not a good enough person to be successful in reality. You’re tainted, and everyone can see it, clear as day, and they don’t want to have anything to do with you. You don’t deserve real people.
And it makes sense. All of it. I believe it, wholeheartedly. The only thing keeping me from completely succumbing is the idea of normalcy. That I know that others wouldn’t accept it, so I should just be there to keep up appearances, to keep people comfortable, to not be too….. weird.
Told you you were fake.