2004-07-05 - 8:22 a.m.
The body is awake again, though I am fundamentally NOT a morning person. Once I'm awake I can't go back to sleep, it's a state of unconsciousness I love but I can't reach it while the brain is still awake.
And lately it's just always on.
Things have changed, though I couldn't tell you exactly how or why. Or even whether it's very good or not. Relativity obscures clarity.
This morning, 2 am, and I'm in bed. That's not new. I'm in bed and I'm silently freaking out, incisions being made by self-denigration. That's not new either. But there were no tears; as if they had packed up and left, moved on to somewhere where they could make a difference. Instead there was shaking, shuddering, shivering; rippling through the body uncontrollably. I curled myself up into a ball, hoping whatever was moving through me would have to move on.
When I closed my eyes, all I could see was blood.
Gushing, pulsating. Caressing the skin with it's warmth as it trickles down to the earth. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
I don't know what that means. Probably that I should be on prozac.
I don't think I'll be mentioning this incident to my counsellor somehow. In fact, I don't think I'll be seeing him again.
When we last left it, he thought I was doing pretty well. There was nothing much to say. He seemed to ... believe in me. In my ability to cope. And I can't bear to dispel that. I need someone to think that, even if they don't ever necessarily think of me again.
It's funny, isn't it. I'm potentially losing my last threads of sanity, but I won't tell the qualified professional, because I don't want to disappoint him.
Though I'm sure he wouldn't take it that way ... but I'm already too disappointed in myself to bother trying. Ahhh. Don't mind me at all, I'm trying to verbally vomit out the toxins before they corrupt the system.
New pointless revelation: all my problems relate back to control. In a twisted way, I enjoy wrecking myself over mentally, because it means that no one else can get in to do it first. At least when I'm doing it, I can feign the ability to stop whenever I want. But I can't stop. My brakes are shot to hell.
It's my only shield. While simultaneously being the very thing that's ultimately screwing me over. Is this ironic, or just laughable? I should be put on display in a museum for mental contortionism. I twist myself over and over in the tiniest of spaces.
Switching gears, there's something museum related I've been fantasising about doing. Being chained up in one for a week ... a month. Shackled to the wall, with strips of leatheresque material binding my feet together, winding their way up to my torso, finishing at my mouth to gag me. Things would be branded upon this material, words like "feminism", "terrorism", "oppression", "idealism". And people could see me, and make of it what they will.
I wouldn't eat, either. I always did like Kafka's Hunger Artist.
I know. Not sane. I wish I could fantasise about being a greatly adored movie starlet or an author with talent unparalleled the world over or a recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize. But it's not in me. No. Instead I daydream of being something people could find vaguely offensive.
That makes me laugh. At least, even in some of the most confusing crevices, life is still comical.
But I'm heavy hearted. Light hearted self, where have you gone? I'm getting older and I need something to rely on. I must have left her in bed. She's probably still there, dreaming of shoes and boys and pink. Typical. But I like her better than myself somehow...
I hope that next time you see me it's her.
And lately it's just always on.
Things have changed, though I couldn't tell you exactly how or why. Or even whether it's very good or not. Relativity obscures clarity.
This morning, 2 am, and I'm in bed. That's not new. I'm in bed and I'm silently freaking out, incisions being made by self-denigration. That's not new either. But there were no tears; as if they had packed up and left, moved on to somewhere where they could make a difference. Instead there was shaking, shuddering, shivering; rippling through the body uncontrollably. I curled myself up into a ball, hoping whatever was moving through me would have to move on.
When I closed my eyes, all I could see was blood.
Gushing, pulsating. Caressing the skin with it's warmth as it trickles down to the earth. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
I don't know what that means. Probably that I should be on prozac.
I don't think I'll be mentioning this incident to my counsellor somehow. In fact, I don't think I'll be seeing him again.
When we last left it, he thought I was doing pretty well. There was nothing much to say. He seemed to ... believe in me. In my ability to cope. And I can't bear to dispel that. I need someone to think that, even if they don't ever necessarily think of me again.
It's funny, isn't it. I'm potentially losing my last threads of sanity, but I won't tell the qualified professional, because I don't want to disappoint him.
Though I'm sure he wouldn't take it that way ... but I'm already too disappointed in myself to bother trying. Ahhh. Don't mind me at all, I'm trying to verbally vomit out the toxins before they corrupt the system.
New pointless revelation: all my problems relate back to control. In a twisted way, I enjoy wrecking myself over mentally, because it means that no one else can get in to do it first. At least when I'm doing it, I can feign the ability to stop whenever I want. But I can't stop. My brakes are shot to hell.
It's my only shield. While simultaneously being the very thing that's ultimately screwing me over. Is this ironic, or just laughable? I should be put on display in a museum for mental contortionism. I twist myself over and over in the tiniest of spaces.
Switching gears, there's something museum related I've been fantasising about doing. Being chained up in one for a week ... a month. Shackled to the wall, with strips of leatheresque material binding my feet together, winding their way up to my torso, finishing at my mouth to gag me. Things would be branded upon this material, words like "feminism", "terrorism", "oppression", "idealism". And people could see me, and make of it what they will.
I wouldn't eat, either. I always did like Kafka's Hunger Artist.
I know. Not sane. I wish I could fantasise about being a greatly adored movie starlet or an author with talent unparalleled the world over or a recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize. But it's not in me. No. Instead I daydream of being something people could find vaguely offensive.
That makes me laugh. At least, even in some of the most confusing crevices, life is still comical.
But I'm heavy hearted. Light hearted self, where have you gone? I'm getting older and I need something to rely on. I must have left her in bed. She's probably still there, dreaming of shoes and boys and pink. Typical. But I like her better than myself somehow...
I hope that next time you see me it's her.
