There’s another part of me that’s rebellious and defensive, blunt and coarse, crazy and erratic. I crave it sometimes. It allows me to be detached from reality and something about that comforts me in a very distorted way.
I think more than anything, it’s a defense mechanism–and I can’t explain to you how, you’d have to sit me down with a psychiatrist to figure that one out–but it happens. I feel in control when I feel like I can shut things out; or off, however I’m having to deal with it. Being unstable is the worst. I have to be in control; always.
I like the other side of myself. She’s crazy and wild; too carefree. She jumps for the thrill of falling.
She keeps me strong, and she steps in when I become too fragile to handle everything else that becomes too much. She picks up the dead weight with the flick of her hair while wearing leather jackets and black knee high boots. She gets her hands dirty, brushes it off, and still walks off looking as if nothing had ever touched her. Oh, she wears red lipstick too. Not the bright red kind, the blood red kind.
I may be completely crazy; I understand this. I won’t apologize for what keeps me sane though.
This is just the other side of me.
“I was never insane, except upon occasions when my heart was touched.” -Edgar Allen Poe