On Fracturing

Cracks, miniature cracks. 

They form on the surface of this skin, this second skin, this fake identity, this untrue persona, this impostor I pretend to be so I don’t have to show what I am inside to the people I care about. 

Nobody loves a monster.

And they grow, these cracks. 

From minuscule fissures in this mask that I crafted so painstakingly, they stretch into rips and tears as if a beast, a hideous, clawed creature is eating its’ way to sunlight, freeing itself from the chains in the dark corners of my mind.

 

It’s as if the tectonic plates of my psyche are clashing, until the plates collide with such violent force that one overlaps the other and gets pushed upward until my true self, the real me, breaks the surface like a drowning man gasping for air, or a shark breaching the face of the water to get at a prey. Unhidden, out in the open, fully at ease with showing the world that it is a monster, that it is born to hurt and maim and destroy without pity or remorse or shame, that this is what it is; this is its’ nature, and no amount of goodness can ever change that.

But I can’t let go, because I know what I am capable of if I lose control over this, this thing. Relax. Breathe deeply, evenly. Find your center, and feel yourself loosening up, as if you are slowly sinking into a comfortably hot bath. Breathe, just breathe… This technique is the only way I know how to calm myself down, to get my heart to stop screaming at the world, to make the blood I envision pouring out of open wounds and over broken bones go away.

But lately, it has become less and less effective. Lately, I just want to hit someone. 

Over and over and over again. Until my arms feel like lead and my fists are stinging with the familiar pain of violent satisfaction.

 

And you know what? 

I don’t want to stop myself.

I want to let go, to relinquish all control to the part of me that I’ve carried for so long in my shadow and learned to hide in plain sight.

And this terrifies me.