Disconnected ; Lashton

26. The World Is Ugly

I relapsed.

It just happened. One minute I was trying to write some lyrics, and a tear fell onto the page. As soon as I saw the stain, I snapped. I wish I could say that I’m a calm and collected person who can control their emotions, instead of their emotions controlling them- but obviously, I’m not.

My day had been going fine. Good, even. That is until I decided to go on Twitter. I went on for a while, things were fine at first. People saying nice things, like usual. But, then I saw some stuff that… well, it wasn't nice at all. It was terrible, it was nasty. And I also wish I could be one of those people who doesn't care about what other people think, but I guess I am. I always have been, to some degree. How could I not be?

I shut my phone off, I tried to ignore it and go on with my day like normal but that’s not so easy to do when you’re not fucking normal and the entire world sees it. Apparently, they also see how awkward I am. How my under eye bags always persist, as do my weird feet and lack of speech. They’ve made it clear how much they hate it. By they I mean the people online saying things about it that I’d really rather not repeat. It’s useless to repeat it since it’s all pretty close to the way I talk about myself every day anyway.

That’s what makes me feel even weaker. Why am I so hurt by others saying the same things about me that I’ve told myself a million times before? If it hurts so much to hear it from others, why do I tell it to myself? Why do I treat myself just as terribly?

Oh, that’s right. It’s because they’re correct.

I have somewhere to be soon and I’m sitting in my room, still in my pajamas, dwelling over all of this. It’s pathetic, really. I shouldn't even be using my energy on such things, I should be working hard to write lyrics, to practice the songs I haven't gotten down completely, to make sure I only get better and better at guitar- singing, too. But it’s hard to do any of that when you feel like a failure no matter how hard you try.

Well, if I’m going to be a failure as a band member, then the least I can do is make sure I’m not a failure as a boyfriend. I get up from my bed and pull on some decent clothes. As I’m getting dressed, my stomach turns when I catch sight of my mistake. That’s what the four angry red lines across my left wrist are. A mistake. Four mistakes, I guess. I was finally doing good at something, but then I had to go and fuck it all up. The lines are proof enough to me that it’s too late for me to not be a failure as a boyfriend today, or ever. Failure it is, then.

With a raging wrist and a splitting headache- likely from a lack of caffeine this late in the day- I slip the hoodie that used to belong to Ashton on and snuggle into it, wishing I could just disappear in it completely. I put a snapback on after, not wanting to bother doing my hair since it would take too long and I’m too drained to try. After I finish getting dressed I wash up in the bathroom and stare at my reflection. Nothing comes to mind when looking at it. It’s just my face, the same as it’s always been.

I scratch my wrist under my sleeve and look at my shoes against the tile below me instead. How am I supposed to face Ashton when I’m filled to the brim with shame? It’s overwhelming and practically spilling out of me. I’m so stupid. But- it all just happened so fast. Like I said, one minute I was fine. The next, I wasn't. I didn't know how to stop myself. I would've stopped myself. I wanted to. I did, sort of. I could've gone on for way longer than four like I usually do, but I didn't. After the fourth, I came to my senses. That counts for something, right?

It’s only four cuts. That’s not such a big deal, right?

It is, though. Because I feel like shit about it.

I huff and shuffle out of the bathroom with my eyes trained on the ground. My phone is still turned off from last night so I power it back on to see if Ashton’s messaged me. To my delight, he has. A smile ghosts on my face as I open his contact.