My creativity turned into destruction

Porter Lunceford

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I love writing. I love creating things. I love pulling some story simply from empathy and pure feeling. My parents always told me I was born with a need to create, a need to put something into the world, even if the world never got to see it. I believed that. I would write poem after poem. Some beautiful, some awful. I’d make up little stories and little scrap pages of senseless jabber, but I would create.

Not long ago, a few years back, the need to create… it began to fade. I stopped writing. I stopped creating. And the need to destroy rose up and took its place.

Now, it wasn’t a need to destroy anybody or anything else. Simply, it was a need… to destroy myself. To swap from telling myself I existed to create, to telling myself I existed simply to destroy myself.

The self sabotage was light at first. Some terrible thoughts, a few scratches here and there. But with each hit, there rose a need for more. With each terrible thought of self-destruction came the need to destroy myself physically.

The self-destruction, the self-mutilation… It reached a peak of physical pain and it poured out into a new kind of hurt. A new urge, and then I began to isolate myself. I began to sabotage EACH AND EVERYONE of my friendships. If I could finally get myself to be completely and utterly alone, I would be ultimately destroyed.

The pain and the sorrow would reach a chaotic climax each in the early morning hours where I would scream out the open window. I’d claw at my chest to remove the terrible pain from within it. My body would heave as I tried to sob, but night after night my body couldn’t produce anymore tears.

To destroy.

In my darkest moments of destruction, when I tore myself down. I began to create.

From the ashes of my self-destruction, I began to create once again.

Though I still get the urge to destroy myself from time to time, I’ve learned that creation involves a little destruction.

And that I am simply a Phoenix, who dies only to begin once again.

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