My forearm stings. My arm with the scars from the times I was too drunk to behave like a normal person, when I acted out at my friends graduation party night and her sister had to drive around looking for me. The same night we celebrated our graduation, except, I wasnt graduating. Suffice to say, I was upset. I punched a kid.

I've been upset my entire life. Though, my less self indulgent years have been spent trying to figure out which mental handicap Ive been lucky enough to experience, I dont think I have anything other than a lull in selflessness. Asked my therapist if she thinks I'm bipolar, I dont remember us getting into it much, asked if she thinks I have borderline personality, she told me, "when a borderline person walks in a room, you know. You're not borderline."

Every fight I had with my ex I shouted at him for being a narcissist but honestly, I think this is it. If I do have the luxury to blame my poor social skills on a misfire in my brain, then narcissism would be it.

Back to my arm, it stings. Randomly it'll do that, years at a time. It reminds me of the amount of contempt I've held toward myself. The utter disdain, embarrassment, hate, for myself. Sometimes my arm hurts, where my scars are which were put there 9 and 14 years ago. I hated myself when I was 12, when I was 14, 16, 17, 18, 21, 23, 24, 25, 26 years old.

Today I'm 27, have been for about two weeks or so. Twenty-seven, alive, alone, in my own apartment, in a state miles away from my past lives, in a place where only one person knows anything at all about me... well that's a lie. I can't seem to get away from my past no matter how far I think I could disappear. A previous co-worker, who should have remained in the past, ironically moved to the same state as me during the same month. Now here we are, discussing when we will meet up again and rekindle whatever relationship we had before.

I cannot run away. My life won't let me. It has been too fulfilled with bodies of humans whom I've formed some sort of impression on. My life won't let me leave. I've tried since I was 12. I thought I could die, i thought i could do these silly, childish things. I thought i could drink myself to death but instead, for over a decade, all I did was waste time. So here I am, buying one bottle of wine several months apart at any given time. I have one sitting in my kitchen now, unopened. Here I am. Choosing life. Because the saying goes; if you can't get anything right, join them. 🥂