“You are so destructive!” my mother would often remind me as a child, it became a part of my identity after only hearing it a few times. Her exasperated tone expressed further distress at the way that I was, the way that I still am.
It defines me as a person. Sometimes I wonder if my subconscious is careless and casually violent on purpose. I identify as broken, and I want everything around me to reflect that somehow. To feel less broken I find others like myself, who also seem convinced that they are damaged. If I cannot find enough damage around me, I make some.
So, when accidents happen, regret and guilt swim my blood like they have always lived there. Cannot help but ask myself, was it *really* an accident? Why would I be so careless? What’s wrong with me?
What’s wrong with you? A question my mother asked me often during my developing years. She would be downright suspicious of me, even though I never gave her a reason to be. Perhaps the villain I see in myself are just echoes from the past.
It is still hard to ignore.