When Your Psychiatrist Is Dead

The only fault I have is I’ve got a couple of years from my teenage that’s frozen in my head. That made me inferior to the fellow race of two legged creatures, I thought. Years of penance, self-loath followed. I thought I don’t deserve anything, I don’t belong anywhere, my face is ugly, I stand no chance to measure up to the innocence of cute-faced people. That I should stand in the very end of the line.

To this day, it is the only serious fault I’ve – I count me unimportant.

But, I know I’m not, at least for me. That I’m the eye of the storm, I’m my only friend, I’m the sprout of the giant tree that will become the shade of many more seeds to come. And in the tug of war between the emotions of being inferior and superior at the same time, sometimes I’m stuck, numb and dumb, or even worse, suicidal.

And that’s alright. A man isn’t dead. He still breaths and soon he will get another bone to bite and chew.

Featured Image: Sarath Sasi