Inside the Quiet Ones Mind

Good and Bad.

I believe that good and bad are a matter of perspective.
Everything in life is separated into two categories; good and bad.
But what exactly is considered good or bad?
In the mind of an addict, their addiction can be a bad thing, but to them it's good-hence the reason why they continue to abuse of whatever it is they can't let go. Because to them, this sweet relief is making their life good, when in reality they're hurting themselves more than they realize. They become so consumed by the fact that it's good and beneficial, it's hard to let go of such a damaging thing.
I suppose I can relate to that example, what I did wasn't as damaging as drugs, but it did definitely impact some aspect of my trainwreck of a life. Over the last few years I developed an addiction, an addiction to pain. It all started back once that dreaded age of puberty settled in, I remember vividly-the sky was a soft blue, clouds delicately decorated across the sky, and the bright sunlight peering down at the black sheep of the family, me. I remember how my dull and dimly lit chocolate brown eyes flickered once seeing a group of girls, all of them giggling and laughing; a thought soon fluttered its way into the branch of my mind, how can I be like that? Happiness seemed to ooze from every pore of their group, everyone laughing, smiling, it seemed as if they had a face to show. Once passing me, a distinct memory dug its forgotten blade deep into my fleshy back; I was blank. They had talents, personality, cute quirks, and a smile that could melt hearts that even the toughest would fall victim for-all I had was a bad haircut, clothing that fell into the category 'outdated', and no friends to sit with. We were all separated into different groups, the stereotypical thing that usually happens in every high school, and I was a foreigner to all. So I was automatically labeled with a sign that everyone avoided, reject. Once walking past them, I rushed onto the bus as it soon pulled away and hauled more than 30 kids to their homes. A pang of longing washed over, sure I read when people wrote about it, but I never fully understood what they meant until now. It hurt, it was like I was playing around the bottomless pit of self pity, and was kicked inside by a strong sense of longing. A few months passed once I had started, starting out small, only a little scratch, who knew it'd escalate to around 10 cuts a day. In my mind I saw it as my only escape, a way to release all of that remorse that built up in my body over the small amount of time that had passed. Soon enough an addiction was born and I found myself lying on the bathroom floor, covering a wound that had been too deep, watery eyes gazing at the gaping slit against my skin while pressing a towel on it to suppress any of the thick, honey like blood that dripped down my thighs. The bleeding gradually declined as the minutes went by, I could feel my hands losing grip of my consciousness before passing out due to the shock of it all. In that moment I didn't care if I lived or died, hell, I stared at death and encouraged him to just take me, but he declined and claimed for the first time that I still had things to do- that was our first encounter, we'd meet again.
Eventually the time soon passed and I was getting help for my addiction, my insatiable and never ending addiction. I did get better at some point, but old habits never die, so back to the razor blades and paper clips I went, hello misery and goodbye humanity. I tossed my feelings into the garbage can, shredding them once they were taken out, and completely losing myself. Each cut, each scratch, each burn soon lost their spark and I wanted something painful. It was as if all physical pain was just..lost. Lost like me. I remember the skies were gloomier than usual, a sickening grey with haunting clouds forming as I walked all alone down the path to my misfortune once again. It's funny really, many people told me that I was crazy for becoming so hooked on something so deadly, yet the pain, and that sweet release I got from it was something I've come to grow quite fond of. I was breaking myself, pushing myself to edge of that bottomless pit known as self pity. Soon I was approached by death once more, his grasp around me tight and firm as he spun me around in this endless waltz around the pit that lead to oblivion, yet two fingers were stuck down my throat, forcing the pills that lead to my true happiness out of my tattered bleeding lips. 'Let me help you,' I remember them saying, what was there to help though? I had completely lost myself, absorbing each cut as if it were something holy, 'No...' I'd say as a response, 'What's the point if I'm going to do it again..?' Because addicts never give up their addiction, I'd become unhinged, and quite frankly I enjoyed that fact. We all have a talent, something's we're known for; this basket case of a soul will always be known for my pain, my misery, my suffering, for it's greater than any cut I've ever inflicted on myself.
I believe that good and bad are a matter of perspective because as my body sunk down the pit, the shackles around my ankles pulled me underwater, I'd become addicted to something painful and dangerous-something utterly stunning to me, yet a horrific scene to others around. Death's hands will always be resting on my shoulders, for he will soon take the lead in this dance, my fate lies in his hands-it's my choice when to schedule another appointment though. My face was a blank canvas and I painted it in a monochromatic scheme of red and black, tears and pain making me more comfortable than smiles. So what can I say to pardon or excuse any of my abusive behavior? Nothing, because nothing makes me happier than the pain I'd receive or inflict on myself, shutting people out and isolating myself is what I'd prefer over company since I have an addiction. An addiction to pain. People get addicted to things that take their pain away, because in their eyes it's a good thing.