I never wanted to be like this.
It had only been a temporary escape from my anxiety-attack of a life. I was so blinded by trying to be as happy as Id used to be, I never saw how much it had controlled me; I couldn’t feel its grip growing tighter. Still, after years without it, the old stigma is still there. Forever labeled as a failure to humanity; the scum of the earth; not worthy of the air that keeps me alive.
According to society, I no longer borrow the air like everything else, I steal it. I am not allowed to be treated like a human being. I’m not even equal to a piece of trash on the ground. People don’t purposely avert their eyes or pull their children away from a candy wrapper stuck to the ground. Ultimately, someone will stop to pick it up. Not me, however. There’s no point in picking me up. According to my history, I’ll find my way out of any recycle bin and back out on the street.
I’m always going to be stuck with my past. It follows me wherever I go. What started as a temporary escape from the world now has me living forever in a world with no escape from myself.
Oh, the irony.