If you’ve read enough of my writing, you could tell I have a self-destructive streak the size of the Mississippi River. I go through phases were every other action I take defies my limitations and leaves me in a corner, battered and bloody. I know myself well enough to know what I truly cannot do without getting harmed, but sometimes, I don’t listen to myself. I just . . . do. Acts of “passion,” as they say.
There are some areas where my self-destruction is not a phase. It’s a lifestyle.
I consume an inane amount of dairy products despite my lactose-intolerance, continue to fall for friends, and neglect sleep all because, for some inane reason, I want to see myself break.
Then I have the other half of myself who wants me to thrive, to live, to succeed. Who wants to stop eating that tub of ice cream, to stop dreaming of that specific friend coming to a sudden realization about me, to stop going to bed at 6 am when I have to wake up at 7:30 am.
Seeing that I am so aware of what’s going on inside me, I should stop that reckless, destructive side of me.
But I won’t.
Matter of fact, I’m currently awaiting the arrival of a tub of ice cream. Chunks of Oreos will speckle the vanilla ice cream. With every bite, each chunk will crunch between my teeth with, reminding me that my jaw is sore from a month long stress-clench. The crunch will also probably aggravate the headache I have from my left eye being swollen with infection, which stems from another self-destructive decision of mine.
In light of all this, I might as well stay up until 6 am again and think about how wonderful my platonic-but-I-wish-it-was-more prom date will look in evening attire. Go big or go home, right?