The Hell In My Head

I'm trying to figure out when the insanity in my head is going to end. It feels like zero hour on a battlefield. Noise, screaming, bombs going off, dirt, stench and general mayhem. It's a never ending blitz of fear, confusion, anger, disappointment and emotional pain.

People tell me that in order to find peace, I have to walk though this Hell, feel it, experience it, face it, and learn how to turn it back. I am told that peace and serenity will come, but not until I confront my demons. I don't know if I have that much strength.

Last night I was reminded of one of my most basic fears. I am terribly afraid of people. Specifically, I think I'm afraid of rejection, and afraid that people will see the total failure I feel like. On the one hand, I'm craving human contact and friends and relationships, and at the same time running away from them, and shutting them out of my life because I'm afraid I can't measure up.

There was a time I shut people out of my life because I was afraid they would disappoint me or abandon me. I expected only the worst. That became a convenient excuse for not allowing anyone in my life. But the truth was I knew they would see through the act on the surface and discover my weaknesses, my flaws, my addictions and the truth that my life was nothing but lies. And then when I discovered I was all alone, it was easy for me to blame others, and say people can't be trusted.

I find myself reaching out and pulling back at the same time. I want desperately to be accepted and wanted, and just as desperately to run back to my safe, dark den of isolation, keeping everyone at a distance. Alone, I feel lost, desolate and empty. With people I feel like a fraud, frantic and afraid that they're going to see the loser I feel like I am.

Right now I feel like I'm standing in the middle of that battlefield. I don't know which way to turn or which way to run. All I want to do is drop to the ground, cover my eyes and ears and wait for it all to just go away. I have that picture in my mind, and as I think about it, I remember lying in my bed as a child late at night, while my father was on one of his drunken rampages in the living room. I was trying to do the exact same thing. Under the covers, pillow over my head, eyes tightly closed and hands over my ears, waiting for it to stop. The silence was at one time both a relief and terrifying, because I never knew if the madness was at an end, or if it was just re-charging for another assault.

I used to think the hardest thing I could ever do was admit my problems, my weaknesses and my dependencies. I used to think the hardest thing I could ever do was to ask for help. But I was wrong in such a big way. The hardest thing for me is not the asking for help. The hardest thing for me is accepting it. I'm like the animal who is starving to death, but is too afraid to get close enough to the outstretched human hand to accept the food. The pain I already feel is one I understand. I don't know how to accept or deal with relief. I know how to live in Hell. I don't know how to function without it.

Why is it that the thing I want the most is the thing that scares me the most? Why is it that I fight the cure so defiantly, when the disease is so exhausting? Why can't I fight the sickness with the same intensity I drive away the cure?

I want to cover my head until it all goes away. The problem is, when the noise is all internal, there's no way to escape it.