Everything feels too much.
Everything is nothing but an endless stream of worry and a late-night fabrication of what an rebellion might be.

I see nothing but imperfections that scream to be fixed. Texts left unread. Opportunities slipping through chance. I smell fleeting hints of a familiar nirvana of what things have used to be. Hear everything, and it all boils down to white noise and a lifelong headache. My heart yearns for something different. Something more and less of what I am and what I have.
I fail to move. To even fucking twitch.

I seem to accept all that is battering down my health despite my complaints. I've welcomed the chaos first as a guest, but now a leeching roommate that I haven't the heart to tell it to just go away. I stay sitting there, accepting this thing to come swaying into my own home, allowing its drunken form to swing itself against anything and everything that stands in its path; end tables, bottles, glasses, lamps, shelves, portraits, myself... And I just sit there. Unmoving. One could even say uncaring but, believe it or not I care a whole lot. I'm just too fucking weak to do anything about it. A fucking coward.

Giving a reason why I have enabled things to go as far as they did do not double as an excuse. It's not just something to sweep under the rug and blow it off as if it was the rug's fault the mess is still there. It's inexcusable.
So it pains me so much to say that, I do miss it when there is no mess to worry about.

I hate it the most when it's away, to say the least. The chaos, I guess. I would never describes its absence as absent really, because I always feel its presence, even if nothing seems to be wrong. I could only go for so long to have things at peace. When everything is going smoothly nothing feels right. My brain scrambles, seeking for something - anything - to worry about. For something wrong. And most of the time it's nothing. So it results to analyzing me. How I talk, walk, move, breathe, think, appear; my aspirations, doubts, weaknesses, strengths, fears, where my happiness comes from, etc etc etc etc. And somehow - my brain finds a way to defile and present it all to be typical and pathetic.
Everything was going so well.
I yearn for the broken glass...the fallen pictures from the wall...the tipped tables and spilled drinks...all of it. It's the only time I find myself standing up. Moving. To be my own bane do I only start to fucking move.

I never feel complete without it. And I hate it. I hate it so much. No matter how much I complain, how much I practice and practice healthy alternatives. Exercises. Fucking distractions. Nothing works and I always find myself falling back into the arms of my abuser. I yearn for it's familiarity when it's gone, always forgetting how horribly dangerous it was when it were here.
It's the only thing that comforts me when nothing else feels real.