Indulging in Melancholy


I have always been highly critical of myself.

If I ever did what I do to myself, relentlessly, to others I would be called a bully. I would. I can be so negative and hurtful… no that’s putting it too nicely… I can be a bitch. I can be the most vile and manipulative cow to have ever walked the earth, all because I know, exactly, which words will hurt the most. I know where my soft underbelly is and I can claw at it whenever I want. I can pick at my emotional seal like a scab until it leaks and then overflows. I never tire. I make myself bleed out with fear and self-loathing until all that is left is pity and shame. Sometimes I triumph and the seal stays strong and can bear the brunt of the nit-picking and the self-analytical interrogations it receives.
But this seal will give way at some point.

This seal’s strength will wane when I have a setback. It won’t matter how pointless or superfluous this setback is; it can be anything. When this does happen the bully in me doesn’t wait. It strikes and then this time the seal fails. So it leaks and until I can patch it up again and give it some TLC it continues to leak infecting the day with malicious thoughts and cynical suspicions.

My ability to blow things out of proportion is certainly an ally to my inner demon. It encourages this facet and feeds on it when it grows. I allow it to run rampant; like a fat child in a candy store who has an unlimited spending allowance. I go on gobbling away on these outrageous thoughts with no consideration of the damaging after-effect. It balloons out of control in my head and suddenly that’s when I can no longer sustain its gluttony. My inner thought‘s suddenly explode outwards and affects another. I’ve had enough of myself… now it needs more. So I lash out. I attack my nearest and dearest because I know where their weaknesses lie.

Makes sense now why I could never stand up to bullies in the past. I didn’t know where their wounds were… I hadn’t the time to investigate and prod and realise. I had to shut up and take it and then release my fury at home… at the people I could hit back with. It was an even playing field then… I just had the pent up anger as an advantage.

I became the bully at home.

I admit it to myself often enough when I am alone, reminiscing, but whenever family members remind me of how awful I was I try to brush it off, to deny it. It hurts me more that they remember I guess… that my beastly behaviour burdens them still… you never forget your bully.

Everyone has one.

So you’d think I’d be able to stop being so anti-me. If I didn’t like being that way to others why do I keep on doing it to myself? Will I ever be able to stop…? You know it’s bad when your friends notice that trait about you but it’s so, so much worse when a teacher acts like it plain to see. I don’t want it to be obvious to everyone. I don’t want everyone to know that I despise myself, sometimes. I know I need to change. Bad habits have a way of sticking around in an unnoticeable place… like a ‘kick me’ note stuck to your back – you are never quite sure if it’s really there or whether someone has been able to stick it back on after you managed to spot it the first time.

You only know with a kick… and I sure am fed up with these bruises.