I hated the way it made me feel. I hated to know that in any moment I could lose control. That, somehow, even if I didn't want to admit it, this was the thing, I might even say the only thing, that I knew for a fact that was there and that I could always go back to. Every time I wanted it, every time I needed it, it would be there. Sometimes it would even come to me without me asking. It might not always be convenient, but I guess that is the price you pay for hiding. And I was okay with that.
Sadness. It felt okay. I was not striking for anything else at this point anyway. I was content with the fact that I might never be happy, but I would seem happy to anyone who might be watching from the outside, so yeah, it was fine with me. Sadness was fine for me. Sadness had become my closest friend. My only friend in fact.
I never thought I would get so used to it though. I mean, how could I? Right? No one likes to be sad. It is a horrible and disgusting feeling. The kind of feeling that makes you hate yourself and that was exactly what was happening to me. But then again, why was I so okay with it? It made me hate myself and still I would crave for it. I would crave for a moment, that specific moment of solitude and relieve, in which I could sink deep into the feelings. The same ones that I would never let myself show in front of anybody. The same feelings I was so ashamed of. Sadness was my way in. My access to those feelings. My permission to being myself. The moments in which I was sad, felt like the only moments when I was real.
Am I sick? Because sometimes I wish I were. That way I could justify the way I feel, blame it on a chemical disbalance in my brain and wash my hands of all the destruction that I have been imparting in myself for years. I go back to it often now. And I think to myself: "what am I sad for this time?". And honestly, I do not know. I am sad and that is it. Sad for no reason. The thing is, that I am not okay with it anymore.