2012 has succeeded in being the worst year I've ever had in a subjective fashion. Objectively, I've had far worse. However, I've fucked myself over this year. I've changed in a way that I told myself I should not, and for what? Nothing, really. I've let myself go and, honestly, I'm a little ashamed of myself. Partially, I'd suppose. In others, I simply accept my decision and realize that perhaps it is the right thing to do, even if it's the death of me. Naturally, I'm an emotional person, as much as I'd like to deny that fact. Naturally sweet, submissive, and the like. With my family life, the way I naturally am was quickly subdued, by the time I was nine. Well. Hell. By the time I was nine, I was plotting a murder. No matter how sweet I was, no matter how nice, willing, if I should displease a parent, any sense of mercy would only be given based on how badly they would feel - my feelings were not considered, in the grand scheme of things.
As such, I simply stopped trying. Why be nice if you'll get treated poorly, regardless? Why expend the effort? I became... less than favorable. Biting sarcasm and easily rattled - quickly turned violent. In essence, nothing more than an angel that grew devil horns. But that's the interesting thing, I'd suppose... An angel knows just how to be nice - with that, they quite obviously know how to be devilish. I never gained pleasure from being sweet or nice - it was simply something I felt natural. When I'd hurt someone, however... it would please me. A sense of bliss would wash over me. What began as a bitter retreat turned into a sadistic spree of sorts. It was... my main mode. I wanted nothing more than to break someone.
I did. I... loved leaving a burned path behind me. I'd imagine myself in a beautiful field, flowers, you know, the typical move type - and I'd imagine myself walking through it and scorching the ground I'd passed over. I wasn't on a mission to hurt, per se, as I had no trouble leaving those who were immune to me(those people are the types I respected); I was simply doing something I knew would make me happy. I didn't care about anyone else's feelings on that matter, especially if they were so weak to be hurt by someone as weak as me.
I can't tell you why I decided to stop doing that. Well.. perhaps. It wasn't to be moral. My... natural self came back for awhile, I guess. A little older, a little quieter. More principled than moral. Didn't see the real merit in hurting others without true cause and the cause of happiness to myself wasn't cause enough. In any case, the reappearance of principles didn't kill the urge and that's perhaps the clearest beginning of change for me - when I'd noticed I had an urge. The idea of reducing a persons spirit to tattered shreds excited me, revved me up... It was the only source of energy I'd had. Hurting others became an energy source. I began to look down on myself for that - feeling a need for something as trivial as that. Having to need to pull energy from others in order to keep from killing myself. So, suppression. I can't lie to you - I don't feel bad for what I've done and I wouldn't feel guilt for doing it again. I didn't suddenly gain another persons emotional compass, so to speak.
I did and I do what I believe needs to be done and although my actions were foolish, in that they relied on the reactions of other people, that is truly the only part I can fault - the fact I failed to think about what I was doing until much later. I'm sure this is, actually, a step closer to the original. Sweet, nice, submissive, and guiltless when causing pain. Perhaps that's the dilemma of an angel - a false sense of superiority. The changes I've made in myself have been... minuscule. Admittedly, there is still that destructive part of myself and I do have to remember to curb it - honestly, it's a bit animalistic. Need. That's all it is. just need. It needs this, pardon me - not 'it.' I. I need it. Disassociation isn't healthy. Simply because it's a part of myself I'd like not to be, doesn't me I deserve the privilege of pretending it isn't.
It's a part of me and I do thank it. Without that part, I would have killed myself a long time ago and right now, even - as... awful as it is, it's still my lifeline. while, I don't feed it, apparently, it's over engorged, yet to run out of steam. Every time I do, I hear it... rather, tauntingly, too. "Are you so weak to let that hurt you?" "You can't really be done after so little has been done, can you?" Every time... it pulls me back up. Only near death. Never when I'm simply 'emotional.' Never then. Doesn't say a word. I never promise myself revenge, retribution, a better life..
I only mention pride. It's not the pride that says anything to me, simply something mentioned. It's not the words that keep me alive - it's the literal pull I feel from myself. I never stop wanting to die, I never gain energy, never a sense of purpose, an epiphany... I'm simply... nothing.
Realization. I realize... I do still feed it, accidentally. Because I recall... when I get hurt... there is a sick satisfaction I feel. That's it. I just feed off myself, now.
I wonder what will happen to myself. I've never felt as badly as I have this year, which, if my theory is correct, is why I've had more trouble than usual with suppressing that part of myself this year. And... it will only get worse. I can't return to the state I was in last year, as matter of principle. I did this to achieve goals that which can no longer be achieved, I know, but I think... personal growth. Understanding. I realize to force myself to live in a casing to protect from emotion is nothing but weakness itself and cheating myself out of something as simple as comprehension of myself. It's been so long since I've... felt so strongly. So long since I've spent nights crying.
However, I realize this is only the beginning... It's only darker days from here on out. I feel myself smiling. Nothing ever really dies, does it? I'm looking forward to the pain I'll encounter.
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