I still have ugly days with ugly feelings. The kinds of days I don’t want to finish. The kinds of days that I want to finish off with long, elegant tracks of blood inscribed on a choice arm, thigh, or ankle. These are the ugly days where I don’t want to get out of bed. And so I don’t. I pop a handful of lorazepam or olanzapine or whatever’s on hand and I just sleep the sunlight away.
But I don’t wake up to a fresh start. The ugly day follows me, more vividly than a bad dream. It calls me back to bed– but I know better. Another day in bed is another lap on the hamster wheel– it puts off the inevitable. Feeling. Feeling the feelings I don’t want to feel. These are the feelings I decided I could survive. These are the feelings I didn’t cut my way out of. But they are ugly.
And, carrying them around, I feel ugly. They weigh on my underweight and bony frame, another burden to bear– a burden among burdens. These feelings, these ugly feelings, they follow me around like my long dark hair. These feelings make me ugly.
With these ugly feelings in my ear, wrapped around my neck and entwined in my long fingers, no one else’s problems compare. The ugly feelings assure me that no one else’s struggles are as painful as mine, no one’s lot is as unfair.
Like unwelcome guests, it’s hard for me to get rid of these feelings once they arrive. They color my days and make them ugly. Making me ugly. I am ugly, with them around my neck. I’m flat, colorless, backwards glancing, and always on the look out for something better. Something to get rid of these ugly feelings clinging to me.
These ugly feelings, these hideous tendrils of my own creation, are my very own to destroy.
These are the feelings that color my days ugly.