Poison

The wells that supply emotions cannot be depleted, but they can be poisoned. The waters can be blackened and fouled so that they yield only anger and hate and despair. Those that drink these waters are similarly tainted. Their insides turn hideous, yet they retain their human form. They walk among others, some staying silent, some wreaking violence. The most tormented however, point their knives inward. They cut themselves down in an attempt to spare the world from their own misery. They sever all ties with people, because it already hurts so much that to burden another person would be unbearable. They isolate themselves not out of hate, but because they care. “It ends with me,” they tell themselves. “I will not destroy others to save myself.” As if such salvation is even possible. Intuition reveals that there is no chance for escape. They know this, so they hide themselves behind superficial friendliness, all the while keeping a careful distance. They are alone out of fear, out of guilt, and out of duty.  

At least, I think there is a “they.” I cannot imagine that I am the only one who feels the obligation to close myself off from others so as not to spread the contagion of misery that sickens me. But perhaps I am mistaken. When I am in public, I search peoples’ faces, hoping to see my own reflection. The eyes can reveal an inner hurt and the self-toxicity that courses through the mind. But I have yet to find another like me, and I am becoming more certain that there is no one of similitude. In a way this a relief; at least no one else is as miserable as I am. On the other hand, it is disheartening to realize how alone I truly am, because until I find another person who already possesses the same internal strife that plagues me, I cannot be close to anyone.

This is not that surprising, and I have been preparing to spend the rest of my life alone since I gave up on ever having a meaningful relationship. That was over 12 years ago, when in a moment of temporary forgetfulness, I thought that perhaps I found someone that could tolerate me. I was mistaken. No one so different could truly accept or understand me.

Yet the need for companionship is genetically built into human behavior, so I hold on to the remote possibility of finding a match. Admittedly, I don’t try very hard, relying more on a chance encounter than a more proactive approach. But what can one expect from someone who honestly believes that he is poisonous to others’ well being and happiness? I am already aware what I have done to my family. My despondency and hopelessness have worried them all and caused them pain beyond what any of them deserve. Of course my anguished writing only worsens matters. Never the less, as a means of coping, I spread my problems very thinly across the entirety the world. Ultimately, it is to little avail, but I suppose that self-expression is another intrinsic tendency that all people share. Even the poisoned ones.