Monster in the Closet 

I’ve been writing this letter for probably twenty years. I’m 31. It’s not an exaggeration. 

I can remember praying to god, any god, to ask for the pain to stop. I lived in fear of my father. Either for him to stop hurting me, or to let me die in my sleep. I had even made attempts at suicide, though mostly to force myself to live. 

Over the years, the frequency swung like a broken pendulum. Sometimes long, peaceful swings between episodes. Other times it scuttled like a metronome on speed. 

I am broken. I am healing. I’m in flux. I’ve done everything I can over the years to move on. Therapy of all sorts. Medication. Therapy and medication. Alcohol. Drugs. Exercise. Hobbies. Sex. 

And yet, I still come back to this place. The most terrifying part? It’s less scary each time, and smells more like fresh apple pie. It’s welcoming. It’s familiar. It’s a trap. 

I don’t cope well. I try. I’ve learned lots of methods, but ultimately, when my mind feels like it’s backed into a corner, I lash out, fangs bared, ready for a fatal blow. 

I am physically violent. I am a perpetrator of domestic abuse. Physical. Emotional. Whatever makes them feel the way I’m feeling. It’s often worse than whatever triggered the response, though the damage is done. It’s myself that I’ve fatally injured. 

I’ve worked really hard these last three years. I’ve let go of a lot of baggage. I grown. It seems not enough. It seems I’m permanently damaged, fucked up in my coding. I cannot espcape my fate. And I’m too tired to keep doing this emotional labor. 

My soul is exhausted. Every time I think I’ve made it, something else pops up to say “HAHA FUCK YOU.” The only logical conclusion my chemically imbalanced mind arrives at: I’m not worthy of happiness. 

Maybe that’s wrong. It might be that I’m incapable. I am quite adept at self sabotage. You may have noticed a keen sense of self, at least intellectually. In practice, let’s say there’s a lot of human error. 

Two years ago was the first time I felt genuine happiness, just to exist. That may be a feeling many take for granted. It brought me to tears. Like ugly crying. And laughing. And the fear that if I were happy, I’d no longer have dark humor or acerbic wit. Things important to me. Defense mechanisms. 

This happiness allowed me to explore my gender expression, a bit of my sexuality, and meet an awesome guy. 

Luis has been a love of my life. It’s not been perfect. Not at all. By all rights, we shouldn’t be together. We tend to go for the throat. Verbally. And me physically. It’s happened three times. Three. What kind of fuckup am I? 

We move past it. We blew up. We cleared the air, of what we thought each other to be doing. And of the ten months together, the last two have felt like a truly awakened, fully realized relationship. 

I still have moments of mental instability, but I’ve felt totally supported by Luis. Yeah I cry. I get in my head. But he’s there. It’s a lot for him. It might be for anyone. I think he’ll always be there. 

I fucked that up too. I pushed myself into a corner. Lashed out. And hurt both of us. It may be fatal to our relationship. 

It brings me back to the question: am I capable of happiness?

Do I want to keep trying? Sure. I feel like I get closer and closer. With each setback, it feels further and further away. Acute versus chronic. I’m not as dull to the pain anymore. Once I attempted suicide by overdosing on pills. It didn’t work. I slept it off and still went to work the next morning (albeit late).

Honestly, how I have relationships may be toxic and unhealthy, if not for me, my partner. You’d think a professional sexuality expert would have some clue as to what he was doing. Intellectual understanding versus application. 

This twenty year old letter is the ongoing contemplation of my life. Of my worth. Of my place. 

I know I have to make both of and for myself. But I definitely felt a place with Luis. The idea of that “homelessness” shakes me to my core. 

As I sit in my selfmade pergatory, I wonder what I should do next? Right now I don’t think it’s physically hurting myself. It may be emotional castration. 

One way or another, I need this pain to stop. I can’t transform it, and so I transfer it. 

I am a monster. 


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