A Biography of Sort

Authors note: I really considered whether or not to post this online for a little while, after all, I know that I am merely another human with another feeling. But I felt some need to write this, and some need to make it available for others to read. I suppose it is the importance of this to me, or maybe just because I'm impulsive and my gut told me I should. But either way, this is a short biography of sorts speaking of my emotions, and an attempt to explain some things that even now I do not truly understand. But, either way, I hope it is of some use. You need not read, but if you do, please read until the end, for it is the end of the story that is most important.

It was a long time that I felt nothing, trusted nothing, beleived nothing. I beleived that this was the only way that a person could acheive even the facade of happiness. I beleived that if I carried through like this that I would be able to survive, and that would be enough. I ran and I ran-from my issues, from everyone else, from myself. I ran from my family, from my memories, from the dark hellish chasm that I saw my life catapulting into.

I ran and I hid. I hid my memories as well, deep inside my consciessness; so deep that even now they remain far from my grasp, leaving me feeling incomplete. It was all I knew, it was the only answer that I saw. For if I ran then I could live my life how They wanted me to. I could live my life up to Their expectations, and they would never be angry at me. And therefore I would save myself from more pain, I would save myself from the trouble of their dissapointment or their anger.

Thats all life was back then-troublesome. It was a burden I took on only because I knew that if I didn't She would be sad. And no matter how much I hated life and no matter how dead I was inside I could not help but care for Her, not help but open up a little when She was there. Not help but want to make Her happy, to live solely on the fact that I knew She would cry if I died.

So I continued to run year after year, growing further away from myself. Losing myself. I lost people, found new ones, it was like watching a boring movie. But I lived on, how I knew I should, how They told me I should. Life was neither enjoyable nor filled with dispair. It was an existance.

Then one year I found someone. This person opened me up to my bare bones and I experienced true happiness, true contentment, for the first time. But with it I experienced pain. Years of pain that I had hid deep inside me, dragging me further down than I ever could have imagined. More than anyone could understand.

I saw my pain eat away not only at me, but at him. And, before I knew it, I was hiding it. But as I hid it I found myself lashing out in blind rage, I found myself unable to hold back yet unable to explain. I found that this happiness was not what I thought, found that the pain was so much more than I could have imagined. Found I was more lost than I ever could have known. And, in this blindness, confused and consumed by emotions I no longer understood and a self I no longer knew, I betrayed myself again and again. I lost myself and looked for that self that I had misplaced in places that did nothing more than bring regret. I found my morals confused, and my promises lacking in their strength.

And the more I loved, the more I fell. The more I saw how wonderful the world could be, the more I learned just how deep my self hatred had gone.

I found that I could not be the person that I wished, found that I was not as strong as I beleived myself to be. Found I was capable of saying things, doing things, worse than I ever could have imagined.

I had been opened up, I was beginning to see myself. I was beginning to realise how broken that self was. And it was then I realised the harshest truth of them all-that I was too far gone. That I would make this man who I loved bleed too much long before he would ever be able to save me, if I could ever even be saved. I realised that this man who I had thought could heal me had barely the want and not the capability, and the more I placed my hope in him, the more I bled.

And, with this realisation, to save both him and myself, I did the only thing I knew how-I stepped back, and, like all those times before, I ran. But my apathy was found to be the death of the both of us.

Regret after regret, mistake after mistake. Opening up again and again only to find that to do so was getting harder each time. Recovery was seeming less and less likely. And, more than anything, I was getting more and more tired of this world, more than anything I was wanting release.

Looking back on it now I realise how selfish I really had been, how in fact my living for 'Them' was not truly me living for them, but just me wanting to give an excuse for me contuing on with the whole monotony of everything. I hope that I may see clearer now.

But the story is not over, and this is not a tragedy. Because through coincidence after coincidence I am slowly finding reason, even if that reason is not yet making complete sense, I am taking life step by step, inching into the ocean of possibilities, and attempting to find new dreams-to find my soul within it all. I have found people that would help me, that would help me understand, that are willing to let me lean on them until I am able to hold myself up.

Life is odd, is it not? In its habit to turn itself around in ways that one never could imagine?

Am I happy? I suppose I am. My problems are not gone and that darkness inside me is still there, that monster that I am yet afraid to completely fight, that skeleton rotting in my closet. Yet something has given me hope. Hope that if I continue to survive, yes, I may very well-or, rather, am garunteed to-feel more pain, but also that I have an equal likelihood to some day feel happiness. That if I fall, if I crash, there will always be a future as long as I am willing to continue to look. That pain is not so painful if there are people there to give you strength, and that happiness truly does linger the smallest of activities and the most conspicuous of places.

I cannot explain it, but all I know is this: I still do not understand my feelings, for I had given them up for too long, but that pain, all the pain, is so worth it if even one smile may remain, if one love may be found, if one friend may be had. And that is the truth, more important than anything, that is the truth.

And with that truth, I can stand; with that strength, I can move on.