The importance of getting suckerpunched

The importance of getting suckerpunched is a many tentacled octopus. It is dangerous but it allows you to understand what feeling out of breath means so you can appreciate the air that you breathe in more.
For years, my posts have been about how I feel like the victim all the time, always on the end of a super suckerpunch from life. Truth is, it's because I am scared. I am always on my toes about anything I do and that somehow tilts into me getting punched in the throat and my gutless gut. I tried the other way, not to be scared and just being there for everyone, being polite, doing things for people, just putting myself out there. Bam, Suckerpunch to the throat and my gutless gut.
Then I tried something else - opening up about it. Boy, that doesn't seem to have helped. There was another followup suckerpunch to that.
Hence, I'll fall. Take it as it is and go down and not get up.
There's no ways to it anymore.

Narcissism

It's been silent for sometime now. Emotions, feelings have been reprimanded, crushed and stepped on and buried more than six feet under. A plethora of elements from hard reality has taken over and shrouded dreams, imagination and freedom. As I move forward slowly and steadily through time, there's still the pangs of guilt and regret over what I did not do in time, there's yearning to still try and do it but reality has a rope around my neck and shackles around my feet and chains on my wrists. I try to give tangible form to anything abstract but I fail, over and over. I try to be myself, then someone else in repeated pirouettes and fail and fail miserably. I act calm; inside I am torn, screaming and desperate now. I rebel with what I can to defend my stance in the ugliness that keeps punching me in my guts, guts that have no intuition whatsoever anymore. I draw blanks, at parties, at meetings, on phone calls, in conversations, while laughing, while thinking, while sleeping. I lick the wounds only to be sprayed with salt again. Leverage my coldness and be ugly. Colors are as invisible as the distant parts of the universe we have no idea about. I cuss, I curse, I swear for I am the rat, scrounging amongst scraps. I breathe hard through my mouth to consume space and scratch myself to bleed for no reason. Potential turned upside down, like garbage strewn in the aftermath of convenes of ravenous, insidious, non-anodyne nobodies. I rage and hold grudges, jealously tugging at the others' stimuli to success. I intend, to transcend, but descend in seconds, to wild ruin. It's not like me to boil I tell myself but I am a volcano beneath. At several forks, I perceive the futility but the desire to slash has taken root. I erupt, I punch, I kick and bite, I ram and shove through my gutless mouth. Empty as graves, artificial as plastic, words spew and gush without thought. I elongate and falsify, I swell and testify, for injustices to my soul are injustices to my existence. 

There's no one I'd rather be than myself, but I don't know what that means yet.