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?