I feel as though I have lost all inspiration or motivation to write anymore. When I look at my past posts, I have this need to keep writing better than the one previous. I believe that if I cannot accomplish this then why continue to write? What is the point of me writing when the words, the phrases, and the sentences are not more meaningful than the one prior?

This happens to me more often than I wish, I begin something, only to stop after a while because I assume I cannot achieve better. In my point of view, for whatever I set out to do, I need to keep increasing that level of efficiency and successfulness otherwise I let it go and stop completely. I have no inclination to keep at something if I do worse. I have ceased countless hobbies; I suppose you could say, for the sole reason that at one point or another I felt as though this would be my best achievement. Stop while you are ahead as to not see or feel that sense of failure. Right?

I have been addicted to many things in my life, just like a majority of the people on this planet. I’ve been addicted to watching television or using my computer. I’ve been a worshipper of coffee and tea. I’ve been addicted to chocolate, gum, drawing on my arm, a particular song, a movie, the list goes on. Some addictions lasted longer than others, but eventually; they all pass whilst new ones take over.

However, some addictions run far deeper then the menial ones above. Some addictions cannot be parted with so easily. My confession: I am addicted to my self-destructive behaviour.

The self-harm, the pill popping, the drinks, the smokes, the purposeful way I put myself in the face of danger. The way I stare at myself in the mirror and continue to berate myself, just to feel the hurt in my heart.

Of all those, this addiction is becoming too much for me to handle. Where did it all go wrong? Where did I go wrong? I thought I had it all under control, I knew what I was doing, and everything was planned out. Where did I make the mistake?

I can’t help myself anymore. The cravings are so intense and the urge to eat overpowers me at times, but the increasingly fearful habit of purging it all afterwards terrifies me. I enjoy the feeling way too much on the surface, but inside where rationality still exists, I despise it.

The addiction does not stop there. The feeling I get when I starve myself is unlike any other high I have ever experienced. I do not think I will ever be able to let go of this addiction, not completely anyway. From where I stand right now, I can see myself still being a slave to this feeling years and years from now. This is not something I can forget, no matter how much internally, I wish I could. It is a part of my existence, a part of my being.

Not eating is like a drug to me, it makes everything so much better. For once, I have the control.

An Imagist Poem:

Laying by itself
forlorn
as a broken
chord
no more use
it never was
faded fingers across sleek timber
glazed over with rich dust
a classical
baron
wooden
six-stringed
guitar.

©GieGieHeart.