People talk to me all the time about those who are socially stigmatted. They tell me how disgusted they are of the actions these outcasts make, how they pity the "poor things," how they're always going to need help, and they ask me my opinion of why do they do it? I give a shrug, fake a look of disbelieve and empathy, shake my head, and reply with the standard, "I don't know."
But the facts are these.
I do know.
I know because I am one of those monsters.
I am one of those hopeless causes that they look so down upon.
In these moments, I break a little more, falling into the mouth of the always hungry shame, guilt pushing me in. What can I do? There is nothing. What can I say? It won't change a thing.
Sometimes I tell myself, that there is nothing wrong with me. And I do believe my own lies more than half the time.
But the facts are these.
I can't keep running this endless cruel game of tag with myself.
Own up or die.
The latter is the easiest.
But the facts are these.
I do know.
I know because I am one of those monsters.
I am one of those hopeless causes that they look so down upon.
In these moments, I break a little more, falling into the mouth of the always hungry shame, guilt pushing me in. What can I do? There is nothing. What can I say? It won't change a thing.
Sometimes I tell myself, that there is nothing wrong with me. And I do believe my own lies more than half the time.
But the facts are these.
I can't keep running this endless cruel game of tag with myself.
Own up or die.
The latter is the easiest.
