The differences between her and I are becoming more apparent the more I write. This cannot be anything but a good thing – the more I learn about her and the more I learn about me, the more I can separate us and realise that she is not me.
Since I started my blog a few days ago I’m feeling on an upswing. That could be due to distraction and having a new hobby and once I’ve done this for a while then perhaps I’ll be less enthused about it, but alternatively, this writing form of therapy could be working. Venting, to myself, my laptop, to people I don’t know (if the post is read) so I don’t need to worry about your judgements as I’m not analysing your facial expressions as I gush my innermost thoughts.
She is nasty. She’s cruel and ruthless and she takes no prisoners. She spends her hours lurking in the background, jumping up like a flash as soon as something that could potentially trigger me arises. She slaps me down, she elbows me out of the way. She pushes and she kicks, she tears and she slashes her way to the front of my mind, destroying everything in her path until she’s consuming my conscience, her slanted dark eyes alight with red fire and glee, feeding off jealousy and turning the envy’s volume louder and louder until it rings in my ears for days on end. She sits in her chair and as I try to seek her out, to recognise that it’s her in control, not me, she locks all the doors to get in and sits still, camouflaged so I cannot locate her and coax her out.
She is beautiful. She is seductive and tempting. She is dark and mysterious and she only wants to kill me from the inside out. She makes her plans so inviting, masking them in ribbons and flowers when underneath is a dark mass riddled with danger. She calls in a sweet voice, ‘you want to do this. You want him to hurt you. You want him to betray you. The betrayal is what you know and the betrayal is safe. He is not safe.’
She makes sure I believe that her beauty outshines my own, and in a cunning twisted way, she then makes me want to be like her, which means adopting and adhering to her plans. She’s quite a catch.
I, on the other hand, when I’m without her, am exactly who I want to be. I have my own quirks, I’m funny and at my best am bubbly and full of life. I want to learn, I read, I drink in knowledge and become inspired. My creativity sky-rockets and my sketchbook fills up overnight. It’s at this point that my guard is down. I acknowledge how good I feel, and that’s what she’s waiting for. For when I am at my best, she knows that it’s one hell of a drop to the bottom. She loves that. She loves watching the crash and burn. She watches the relationships crumble and the productivity falter. She’s drugged on the bruises and cuts, the screaming and tears, the broken objects and helplessness of loved ones. She’s satisfied, at her strongest, and she stays that way for days. She makes me want to do it again.
She makes me think she is me so well.
She’s a bitch.