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Fact or Fiction

diary of a cracked metaphor: Chapter 1

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July 29th, 2020

When did my life get stuck on autopilot? My numb instant responses to the hard things and the blank stares are chilling and eye-opening when I’m actually feeling everything, every emotion you can imagine.

Do you have those days when you just want people to shut the fuck up and just listen? Think about how you treat someone and how that interaction could make or break someone’s entire day? Working at a mental health office can literally make you more mental than you thought you originally were.

My soul has hardened, desensitized. Why do we treat other human beings like shit?

Just another day at the office.

Often I feel like I’m living in constant turmoil.

I thought of this project yesterday, and I wasn’t going to start it until August 1st, but my need to get words on paper is paralyzing.

365 days. One entry a day for the next year. Maybe this will make sense of all the things that don’t make sense anymore.

Life is a kaleidoscope. Some days are brighter while some are more dull, there are more details in some aspects over others, it’s repetitive, the design can change one turn after the other and the imagination of possibilities doesn’t have an end.

Grace. When I try to have it, I don’t have it in me to project this quality.

Last night was tough. I feel like I’m in a constant battle with myself and those around me. Why do we fight? Why does the idea of a conflict appeal to us?

I’m a runner. I wanted to just take off and run after another conflict. Why is it so easy to act like nothing matters anymore? Maybe because I feel like somehow nothing does most of the time.

I try to find solace in knowing I know who I am, but the fact is, some days I just don’t. The words flow so easily on the blank page because I live through the struggle every day of trying to figure out who I am, what I want and what will essentially make me a happy person in life because the fact is, some days I’m just not.



These words often get thrown around losing their meanings. But to those who actually live with the possession of these awful diseases, they aren’t just words. They are the anxiety and panic attacks we have clandestinely, physically and mentally crippling us in the worst ways, the days we want to spend in bed because it’s too painful to get up and face the world another day, the tightness in your chest you get throughout the day making it hard to breathe, the constant worry of losing a job or being perfect, the loss of interest in doing something we love. They end up defining who we are without being able to put up a fight.

And the worst part: we, us human beings, are the cause. The constant need to be perfect and trying to have it together all of the time when we are falling apart inside and. The capitalistic nation we live in that constantly tells you what you are doing is not enough.

Uncertainty. Nothing is certain. A single word, a single action can make any certainty you had dissipate, go up in flames. Sometimes the constant noise of everyday life chatters uninterrupted and you feel suffocated.

Will the noise ever stop?

I get angry—a lot, and quickly. The triggers of the past haunt me, and I don’t know how to escape it. I can’t see any other truth but mine.

How can something so evil exist, causing the rage so deep within that you can’t recognize yourself anymore? The one person I love the most sees the many stages that I am; everyone else gets only the surface. Why is it that the ones you love the most get the most destruction on your worst days? The mania.

Yesterday I heard a sad story. A patient’s family let her die a slow, lonely, painful death. She was lying face-down after an immobilized fall and found decomposed after two weeks in her apartment — alone. Two weeks. No one checked on her. She had been in the office a few months ago, half of her face black and blue from a previous fall. She had dementia, and her daughter who brought her to the appointment didn’t seem to care about what happened next after the consequential diagnosis was determined. We reached out to her primary care office for additional help, but for some painstakingly reason, this life wasn’t important enough to save.

It really makes you wonder if the people in your own life really care about you or not — and to what extent. Why is one life more valued over another?

Life should be about filling the days with moments that matter. And people who matter, even though some may say every life should matter.

Self-care and care about others. That’s what I constantly try to tell myself to do.

I used to be all about myself and the strong individualism I obtained, the “I don’t need anyone” and “no fucks given here” mentality, but somewhere on the jagged road to self-discovery, I got lost and trapped in codependency — to every serious partner I’ve had. Am I the common denominator? Do I make the best of people the worst version of themselves?

I push others away. That’s what I do. I have been hurt and disappointed too many times to count. I have been taken advantage of. I trust no one. That’s why I push others away. Is it easier than being let down, beaten and battered once more — when I inflict the pain?

The words are dancing around, some make sense and some don’t, even after I cut and paste — cut and paste as I read and read as I read this passage over and over again— because that’s how my mind works. I’m trapped in all of the thoughts and feelings I can’t control.

Are these even my feelings or just the result of another codependent situation?

My life can be broken up into stories. One day at a time.

I’m a cracked metaphor—and this is my diary.

Krys Merryman is the author of ‘diary of a cracked metaphor,’ a series about having flaws but not being broken in a society that expects perfection, everyday survival, strength, dignity and unconditional love.

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