The Nights

Sometimes I feel like I’m conducting my own autopsy. Like I am tearing myself apart to look inside and see what went wrong – so I can be sure it doesn’t happen again. I pick at old scabs and rip open old wounds, not just to watch them bleed, but to dig deep inside of them. And what do I find? Nothing but old pain and bad memories. This exercise doesn’t seem to be making me any stronger. But I do it anyway. I read old poems & journal entries, listen to songs from my past, and talk about things best forgotten. I suppose I could ignore the past & the memories. When they come up I could stuff them back down again. I always promise myself I’m gonna do that – that this time will be different. I tell myself that I will be stronger, that I wont let things hurt so much, that I’m gonna be easy-going and laid back. But it never works. The drama weaves itself in and out of me and I cant be myself without it – I can’t breathe without it. So he says I need to relax, to trust him and get to know myself better. He says he’s gonna teach me not to be afraid, that I can do anything I want and nothing should hold me back. That it’s just me and him here and nothing else matters. And of course, I know deep down that he’s right. But when the pain is so real that the only way out is to slice myself open, when the reality is actually sitting in this room with me, good intentions are meaningless. I can’t see straight. I can’t make it out alive. And no amount of common sense or stability will change this. I am a victim of my own moral superiority. Late at night, when all I can see is darkness, when I find peace in every breath of smoke, when I put the space of this room between him and I, there is no way to escape the tragedy. No matter how far I dig down, no matter how much I break apart, no answers seem to come. As hard as I try I will never be alone, because the shadows of my past are welded to my soul. That is all there is.