The Octopus

People ask what I’m rooted in, and I say my emotions.

Trauma is a huge factor — along with childhood.

I’m rooted in an octopus, its tentacles of mental illness wrapping around me, chaining me in place.

Almost like shackles I can’t break, no matter how I try. I’ve been close to sawing my own foot off just to escape — the very things that hurt me also feed my brilliance, twisting my soul. My creativity is fueled by trauma and reactions I can’t seem to outrun.

You ask me about emotions.

What else can I say?

I’m diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder, anxiety, and C-PTSD. Severe borderline personality disorder, too — so yes, I’m all about emotions.

One moment, I’m euphoric.

The next, I’m sobbing for reasons I can’t explain.

I’ve put holes in my roommate’s walls in moments of fury, because facing my demons burns. And lately, one emotion has risen above the rest — a companion to my suffering.

Vengeance.

Since I started soul-searching and writing my books, I’ve unearthed feelings I kept buried my whole life. For years, I told myself “someone has it worse.” But now I see the truth: my life was horrible, and I deserve to acknowledge it.

The rage feels like my skin is crawling, heat boiling under the surface. I tug at my arms, desperate to unwind. Vengeance sits in my throat, gurgling, ready to scream out my demons at those who wronged me — to make them feel a fraction of the wrath I’ve carried.

But that boiling rage holds me back from happiness. Forgiveness is not in my nature.

And I know — it’s my downfall.

Like they say, it’s drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die.