“I was bruised and battered, I couldn’t tell what I felt.
I was unrecognizable to myself.
I saw my reflection in a window, I didn’t know my own face.”
This lyric from Bruce Springsteen is another in a long string of song lyrics that punch me in the face when I hear them. I’m mostly grateful when I hear songs like Streets of Philadelphia because if I’m feeling it means I’m not dead. Obviously I don’t completely wish I was dead. I don’t want to miss out on seeing my nieces and nephews grow up. I don’t want to cause that much pain to my loved ones. But gosh I wish my entire being was numb.
mydarkestplaces 
My song used to be outside, by staind. Or maybe the song that more accurately represented my twisted perception of the world was Iris, by goo goo dolls. I hid from the world, and I didn’t want to be seen. I became agoraphobic at the ages of 20 and 28. I was afraid of being ridiculed, of being ostracized and physically tormented. I traced my source; the source of my unnatural fears. I can remember how my physical size lead to me feeling insufficient at only 6 years of age. I was an advanced learner, reading at 3 years old, fluently. A decade later I let my grades slip so I could be normal, in normal classes, or so I thought. Children are cruel. Eventually I allowed relentless torture by my peers in high school. I thought about hurting myself. I thought about hurting the bullies that dragged me underneath the bleachers and choked me until the blood vessels popped in my eyes. I had sick perceptions. I still do, slightly reducing them each day that I turn my will and life to a God of my understanding. Maybe my song is unwell by matchbox twenty. People think of me, and how I used to be.
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