I’m a creature of habit. Bad habits.
First, I let routine lead my life and numb my senses with tedium. Is it a symptom of obsessive compulsive personality? Sheer stupidity? Intellectual laziness? Victimisation is such an easy cop out. Add one more bad habit to the list.
By then, I’ve allowed to get myself surrounded by company. Is it good company? I’m belittled and insulted, only to turn the other cheek. Is it worth it? Am I that afraid of loneliness? Isolation kills you, that I understand. But this isn’t the case. It’s a matter of choosing your acquaintances, friends, call them how ever you like. Why must they choose you? Choose them. Allow yourself to reject people. A polite rejection hasn’t killed anyone. Go ahead, try it.
Time goes on. We gather together, go out, have fun. Rather, they have fun. Am I having fun? Can I justify the upkeep of appearances? One can endure, but shouldn’t. I don’t need to prove I can withstand abuse and still manage a smile. I don’t expect such a cruel lifestyle to anyone. Why would I inflict it upon myself?
Moreover, my interests are at odds with my mask. Am I ready to pay the price for freedom? It doesn’t seem like it. I follow. I copy. It seems I gave up. Or did I? If I did, would I question where I am standing? Self-doubt both sabotages me and, in this case, might save me. Some defects can be good for you.
And so comes the question: am I ready to stand up for myself? Every fibre of my body says that I will fail. “Don’t do it. Risk is scary. What if you fail? You’ll get hurt. You can’t get up. You can’t move on.” My mind bombards me with nonsense I accept as truth. Why do I give in? Is it laziness? Am I that afraid to make a stand? Is life so overwhelming? It is. I’m at odds with the world. Alone. I despise being by myself. He’s such a pessimist. I wish I knew someone who didn’t hate me.
I’m a creature of habit. I need to replace them. Good habits. When did I start to coalesce abuse instead of challenging it?
I’m aware of the consequences. Why am I sad? They don’t care for me. My departure will change nothing. Do I care for them? Can someone care for those who hurt them? Is it sincere concern? It screams Stockholm Syndrome, no matter how you slice it.
I’ve been neglecting my gut for too long. Don’t even bother flipping a coin, do what feels right.
Nobody believes in me. As such, I must believe in myself. Don’t give in.