Chronics of an Unlovable Person
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- Parts 2
"Who do you see, when you stand there looking into the mirror...? is it truly urself? is it you at all...? what if you look into the mirror and can't recognise anything at all."
Rafayel Wyendelewski, a young boy who was never loved properly. Suffering with bpd, autism and ptsd featuring heavy depression. so what does life taste like as someone who isn't fitting in. As someone who lays in-between the insufferable feeling of nothing being real at all...
This is made for the ones who can relate.
TW:
(I'll put the specific trigger warnings at chapter beginnings aswell!!)
•Suicide mention
•SH
•BPD
•Ptsd
•self destruction
•sa mentioning
Also handling the topic of being alternative, trans and queer (+and the bad sides of it)
All Rights Reserved
#785
trans
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Bright lights, the beat of the music beneath my feet. Distant chatter, quite whispers. The feeling of joy, loss, heartbreak, and loneliness surround me. Buried in a crowd, drowning under the gazes of people who look through you. I am but of glass, a mirror if you will, willing to be seen through, but not seen. Screaming in a room full of people when no one can hear you, let alone see you. Hidden breaths, rising, falling. Isn't that funny, falling? Laughing would be easier than standing here in the crowded place, filled with people, faces, judging every moment the other makes. I could tell you the peace I get standing alone in a room filled with people who only see you as a mirror for who they don't want to be. I could cry tears of blood, and non would ever so much bat an eye in my direction, but I love it. The feeling of being unseen as to appose being seen for the matieral object I once was. Silent, unmoving, unwilling. I am but an idea, glass, shatterable, broken beyond compare. But strong, resistance flows through me. Willing me to be the best I can be, but can I? Who says I make sense, who says I am even me, am I? That's a question I spent years wondering. Who would I be without these scars that tether my skin, marking each even, like a calender. To mend the feelings people have isn't a easy thing, but to break is easy, always easy. How easy it is to forget, to run. I can feel the ground beneath my feet, feel the soil in-between the crooks of my toes, I could describe to you the smell of the rain. Pinpoint the center of the earth, but as I stand here, again amongst the crowd of people stand in this room. I am lost again, an idea, but for what purpose? If I could run, navigate my way through this crowd, I would seek refuge somewhere dark and cold, where I could take off this cloak and be one with who I am, or want to be.
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