A Different Kind of Person

I used to be a different kind of person. I was broke and tired, I was running on pure desperation. My conscience was hidden underneath layers of cold; under layers of sadness that were stale and hard. I didn’t know how to articulate my feelings into words, and besides, no one was there to listen anyway.

I knew right from wrong, but I learned how to make exceptions. I felt ignored by the world, and so I in turn ignored the world. I would walk to into stores, with no money in my pockets, and walk out with stolen goods in my purse. It was easy enough. Grab a box, carefully take off the sticker, and nonchalantly stick it in my bag. My heart would beat so fast, and the sweat would beat down my forehead. It was a rush, a high, and yet I got no joy from it.

I would go back to my apartment, greeting a roommate that had no idea that I wouldn’t be able to pay rent. She didn’t know, because I didn’t tell her. I suppose I could have. I could have sat down next to her, and explained that I was broken. That I had no will left in me, that I was rotting away. That I couldn’t hold down a job. That the world scared me. That people scared me.

But I said none of that.

I entered my bedroom and took out the bottle of stolen pills. I didn’t even know what they were, I didn’t care. I took one. Two. Three. And when the buzz filled my body, creating the floating heaven, I would empty out my purse.

It was an ugly time. I would steal from anyone. And everyone. Loved ones. Strangers. I would guzzle alcohol and huff on cans before the guilt could conquer me. I was a fallen robin. I made a thousand excuses for myself; I tried so hard to run from the truth. I apologized for nothing. I was attempting to become the sort of person that I desperately wanted to be, the type of person that cared about nothing. The kind of person that could turn their back on the crowd; no attachments, no victories, no dreams, no thinking. Just a shell. A hard shell that was a remnant of a person.

I attempted. For years. But I never succeeded. I would always find myself, late at night, covered by the weight of my decisions. Suffocated in guilt.

Yes, I used to be a different kind of person. Now, I have nothing to filter out my conscience. I am stuck with me. It is painful, unbearable at times, but it is real. It is necessary. I say sorry now. I feel sorry now. I try to be what I know I can be. A good person. A decent person.

At night, I am still plagued by guilt. I remember all of the people I failed, all of the times I failed myself. But I try to allow myself to feel human, and to accept that I coped how I needed to. I try to make peace with myself. And I carry on. And I try to do better.

For what else can one do?

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11 thoughts on “A Different Kind of Person

  1. I guess the past never really goes away, especially if it were such heartbreaking and painful.
    There is nothing to do about it but to move on, day by day, the way you can.
    In the end, it made you who you are now.
    And I think you are pretty amazing.
    Thank you for writing this.

  2. You will prevail, but this is something through which you must navigate. The past will eventually fade. You will accept what you did in the past and vow to do better. You will do all this because you are awesome.

  3. I think that’s all we can do. I really admire your insight, you bring to light so many things that I feel deep down inside but can’t say. You’re way more stronger and smarter than you realize.

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