inside/outside

It is only after I leave the interior world of the apartment, step forth into the vast landscape of the exterior world (which, I trust, still exists without me once it has disappeared from my eye), that I am most sensible. Otherwise, unless on Adderall or some other brief moment of ecstasy, my mind eats away at myself. I feel trapped within the walls. I feel defeated. Perhaps it is my room which feels a mess and therefore makes me feel a mess. Perhaps it is the heaps of books lining my walls and closet, which overwhelm me. Those are just excuses—and nothing more. It is not until the air hits my face, that I become alive again, invigorated again. No one would be able to tell that I carry within me two differing and opposing selves. Lucky for them, for the one who self-hates is so boring, unsuccessful and unproductive. And hopefully, she will die off soon. The struggle is so unexplainable. It baffles all who hears of it. For instance, the woman I sat in the corner room with on Tuesday—who asked me: Within the year that you struggled through your disorder, did you really not see anyone for help? Really? Yes. Really. Just me, pushing my self through. Or the woman last night who laughed with me: How come I can quit cigarettes one day and never look back. Make that decision, and never fall back. How come I can easily get myself better in that regard, and still struggle with a healthy mind. We laughed, rolled our eyes. And a man stood with me by the door, gave me his personal card and shook my hand as I left with a smile. People like what they see, people believe in me—I just wish I always did, too. The hours I spent fighting myself this morning were nothing but a waste. And so I push on, try and become busier, get outside myself.