Life is too simple, yet so complicated. Such complexities can elicit illegitimate feelings and disconnected reflections based on what; silly conjectures and misread dialogue? My problems, when thought of purely logically and objectively, are so simple. I can write down each mental or even physical problem and know in my heart what caused the problems, what the problems are, and where I have fallen due to such indiscretions in emotional fortitude. And the irony that so lovingly taunts me is that this simplicity is so placid and translucent that it's so heterogeneous and convoluted in its makeup. I can't seem to outrun the mistaken words and misread gestures that lead me to assume only what one would call asinine and ridiculous. But the apparent satirical theme of my life is all too asinine and ridiculous. Every racing thought that rips through my inner conscience is quintessentially and, metaphorically, a parallel of the scars on my arm; all due to the emotional indiscretions that fucking taunt me straight to the alleged soul that I have, probably, already condemned to eternal damnation.
I cling to the idea of control: the more control the better. My whole life is one fiasco after another and this chaotic pattern is the derivation of both my anorexia and cutting. Both behaviors are merely hopes at controlling this sinuous, distorted, twisted mental illness I have: bipolar. And much to my avail, I have relied on these behaviors to such an extent that their effect on relieving those feelings I run from so arduously has degraded to practically nonexistent. It seems the only outlet that will never fail in a lasting effect is drugs; though, of course, that's just another crutch and problem to add to that fucking list. As I sit here and type this pathetic monologue of a personal reflection I can't help but succumb to the inevitable reality that I am, in fact, pathetic myself. The fact that I can't overcome my own issues and break through the inferno of burning regrets and doubts within my mind and soul is weakness.
