See Pay angst. Angst, pay, Angst!

There are three people in this world who I trust completely. I don’t trust people, normally, because that’s the fast-track to a whole mess of things, emotional, physical, and so on. But I trust them, more than anyone or anything or myself. Somehow, this doesn’t even enter my mind when they tell me things like to stop beating myself up about stuff. I don’t even consider being logical. In my mind, I am being logical, and they’re just blind to something, some important all-encompassing thing that makes me not really worth caring about. Bullshit? Yeah, probably. But that doesn’t make it easier to let go.

The thing is, for the most part, all the bullshit about schizophrenia and hearing voices in your head… I figure, I don’t hear more voices than normal people, unless you’re counting Mohan, and the kittens, and the kittens are not in my head. Well, they are, but I still hear them like normal sounds. The point is, there are times when I would make the most stereotypical schizoid seem normal, except that I try to avoid muttering to myself. The voices in my head aren’t part of me, or they are, but they’re

fuck it.

The point is, I will never be able to convince myself that I am not a shitty friend, or a shitty excuse for a human being. No matter how much good I do, and how much my friends tell me that it’s alright, and how much I escape, I will always feel like a horrible person who’s just managing to disguise the awful parts of her for now, and eventually they’ll come out and destroy everyone around her. And the worst part is? I’ve at least partially confirmed this. Without a certain part of me keeping myself in check, I could easily become a psychopath. I’ve nearly stabbed my best friend in the eye before, without it even really registering in my conscious mind until the fork was halfway there. The only conscious thought I had, in a feeling rather than words, was how satisfying stabbing an eyeball would be.

This is why I do not understand why anyone, at all, would ever want to be even in my direct vicinity, let alone actually friends. Yeah, I can pass for normal sometimes, or failing that, I can look and act like a nice person, or at least a friendly one, but the fact is, I know that there is something inside of me that is either not human, or a terrible human. I am, on the inside, a monstrosity. A wild thing, but not in the romanticized, glorified, dreaming-hippie wild way. A real wild thing, all claws and irrational ferocity and fear and rage and unthinking violence.

That’s the part that scares me the most, I think. Then there’s all the other parts, the part about not caring enough, and being a shitty friend because, secretly, truly, I care more for myself than anyone, and how would I ever know if that’s true or not? I claim I’d do anything for my friends, but doesn’t everyone?

Then there’s the part where all of those combine with the final fucking crown jewel of analytically criticizing every word and gesture and look that have crossed me in all of life in memory—and I have a long, long, detailed memory. And hating myself for every damned one. I know, and constantly review, almost every mistake I’ve ever made. It’s a habit. Sometimes I can keep myself from doing it, sometimes I can’t.

I think I hate my life, but in reality I hate myself so much more. And my friends don’t understand why, and the worst part is that I could explain everything in this blog post with a fucking powerpoint, and they’d still tell me to stop beating myself up. Why? What the fuck makes you think I deserve happiness?

(The logical part of my brain claims that it’s Baptist Guilt telling me all this. But I rarely know which part of my head to believe. They all lie. I don’t really trust myself anymore, either.)