#ac163

[thearsonistbitch]

Self-loathing

"You're weak, annoying, unstable, and ignorant." Everyday, words play in my mind. Some can be uplifting, but most are not. I often wonder who they are coming from, why these negative thoughts towards myself arise so often. It never mattered if I did anything right or if I did something wrong. I'd try to fight them off, but they never go away. "You're a fucking coward. You're crazy." Constantly, someone is screaming this in my mind. Did I really believe that of myself or was it just my demons breaking me down? I have some good qualities, right? These voices can't always be right. Something's got to give. "Why even try when you know you'll end up killing someone you love?" Do I really hate myself that much? Every morning when I wake up to night when I lay my head down, these thoughts run rampant. They were like marbles, shaken up and shooting around the room. It never settled. "You should have finished the job. Your attempt scars are ugly. Hell, you're ugly." On the outside, I portray the complete opposite of what the voices shout, as much as possible. But sometimes, I break. Sometimes I give in and fall into their level of thinking. "Your parents were right to not acknowledge you. You'll never be successful." I often wonder what could silence them. Psychedelics tend to make them worse if a bad trip occurs. Pills and alcohol numb them for a little bit. Therapy tended to make it worse. But nothing ever truly made them go away. The reality was, I wasn't fighting someone's thoughts of myself. I was fighting my own. The voices, the insults, coming from my inner being. The reality was, despite my efforts to be strong, stable, and amazing on the outside to everyone else, I was at a constant war with myself. And I don't think anything or anyone could truly fix that besides myself.

[vidaliaraebanai]

Activity Check: 163

Focus. Focus. Focus. I swiveled my hips, the balls of my feet shifting against the matted floor as my arm pushed across my frame, gloved fist connecting with the leather bag in front of me, my second fist following just seconds behind, causing the bag to swing against the chains that held it in place. I could feel the sweat forming against my hairline, threatening to drop as I continued with my reckless actions. Suddenly, it was all I could focus on. I felt the droplet of sweat trail down my forehead, over microbladed eyebrow, getting caught against lash extensions before my darkened orbs fluttered closed, blinking it onto my cheekbone, intermixing with the leftover highlighter from a night out on the town the previous night. It burned, the salty dampness trailing down my cheek the same way the tears did nearly every night. Weakness – that’s suddenly all I felt as I drove my fists harder into the punching bag. Luck is what brought me to Sloane, what brought me success, what keeps me going. Weakness is what keeps me here, what has driven me into the situations I’m finding myself in now, what lost me my son. Fucking hell… I shook my head, refusing to halt my actions as I continued putting all of my frustrations into the punching bag, my mind instantly returning to that bead of sweat. Or maybe now it was a different one. It didn’t really matter as it simply held my mind’s focus as it trailed down my neck, catching against defined collar bones before continuing on, between large breasts, down abs defined by hard work and years of athletic training, between hip bones that were littered with bruises from pure clumsiness. Finally disappearing, soaking into the thick band of my Nike shorts. I took a deep breath inward, my lungs begging me to stop, even if it was just for a moment. Finally, I gave into what my body wanted, stepping away from the bag and tugging my gloves from my hands, dropping them to the floor in front of me as my arms instantly went above my head, fingertips interlocking as I rested them within messy, dual colored locks. I felt my check rise and fall heavily as I took in deep breaths, trying to overall slow my heartrate and simply catch my breath. That’s when I caught it – my reflection. Darkened orbs met identical ones in the floor to ceiling mirror as I found myself staring at my reflection, enticed by the female looking back at me – covered in sweat and out of breath, but more than that too. I felt like I finally saw myself for exactly what I was. Weak. Ashamed. Guilty. Afraid. Broken. Unworthy.