Sometimes you just can’t get it right. I gaze around the room–a strange unfamiliar habitat–it’s not my house, this is not my house. I don’t feel safe. I don’t feel comfort. I feel the cold granite beneath my bare arms. I sense the degree of spartanism evident within these walls. This is not my house. I am not ok. My head spins and all I see are weapons. My immediate thought process is in regards to how I can utilize each material object around me for evil. How can I cause the most bodily damage to myself? How can I mar this tainted flesh to a degree to which I finally achieve a level of satisfaction. I want to smash my guitar. I can see the neck of it just peaking out from above the countertop. My inner caveman wants to dispel just a piece of this rage that is building within me, anger that I know will erupt at some point sooner rather than later. Smashing things seems like a natural proclivity. I should probably work out, but I just ate a sandwich. Somehow in my fucked up brain I am believing that throwing up as a side effect of draining my energy via physical activity is a less wise choice than destroying my most cherished objects. Yes, this idea of mine. It’s…it’s brilliant! Brilliant, I say!
But, I won’t do it. I won’t throw a plate into the pastel walls. I won’t punch any hard surfaces. I will not kick, nor scream, nor otherwise throw a tantrum. I have no strength left. I have nothing in reserve to donate to these fruitless actions. After I had finished I would still not be ok. I would just have to deal with the repercussions of having partook in such an impulsive exercise. I have to fight to quell the demons within my soul. I don’t hear voices. I just have been burdened with this immense amount of guilt that has been piling up upon my chest in recent days. Guilt that cannot be assuaged by any known means. I am Dimmesdale in this story. I want to tear up my skin, flog myself until I am unrecognizable, I desire to look as ugly and monstrous as I believe myself to be on the inside. Cut me open and nothing but sand will pour out. My heart and veins pump nothing more than black tar and ash.
And I’m not ok. I’ve been informed, by those who dub themselves as sane, that my actions are nothing more than cries for attention and/or symbolic of my immaturity. I tend to submit before these beings because no amount of arguing will ever stumble upon a semblance of agreement. Staunchly held beliefs are incapable of crumblings due to the words of a crazy bitch like me. I am told that I need help from individuals qualified in “dealing” with cases like myself. What these lovely creatures fail to cohere is that the entire basis of my “disorder” is that I am incapable of seeking help. I am incapable of even calling some office to make the fucking appointment. I have sever, debilitating, crippling anxiety that inserts me directly in the midst of this torturous cycle of: –breaking down–hurting myself in some way–hurting others by hurting myself–feeling guilt–realizing I need to learn a better way of coping–starting to get into a happier place in my head–wanting to change my ways and be proactive–getting afraid to change and be proactive–move on along my way until the next episode.
It’s been that way for years now. I am not ok.
Today I literally wanted to destroy my facade. I wanted to carve deep gaping holes into my cheeks, into my lips, into my ever pore. I wanted my face to be a mask–a map showing all the times I’ve fucked up or fucked someone over.
I wanted to do this. Instead I did only five cuts. None substantial. I just needed to paint my face with blood. Dot my cheeks with maroon rouge. Let it sit until it dried and then cry it all off. My body is peppered with scars. It is humiliating. Nothing is more embarrassing than having to explain that “Why yes that is an “m” stabbed into my arm. You are correct, sir!” But, you have to accept that as your penance. It will happen forever. These memories will never fade. They may, over time, grow whiter with age–as will I–but they still continue to haunt my every move, my every turn. They make me ugly. But, I feel ugly. So, if the shoe fits…wear it.
I want so desperately to bathe in a pool of vodka. To bury my head beneath the frigid temperatures, slowing my heart rate, calming my spirit and mind. I want to inhale deeply, allowing the drink to pour down into my gullet, to numb me entirely. I need a respite. I need an escape. I need to forget. I need it to be six months from now so that I don’t see her ghost every which way I turn. I believe if I was to maintain a sense of perpetual drunkenness that in time I would wake up and be cured. My liver might be shot to shit, but who cares at this point? I guess my other innards need to catch up with my warped heart. I’m sure everything confined in this skeletal cage strongly resembles a Salvador Dali painting–melting, distorting, dripping off the page until nothing remains but a puddle of what once was.–of what COULD have been. but never will be.
I have been beaten down by everyone. I try to remain slightly prideful. I try to keep up a sense of dignity while the world around me burns to the ground. I’m trying. But, failing at a rapid pace. I have to keep biting my tongue. My mouth fills up with blood each time a disagreement ensues–each time I am berated to death–each time I am called a disgrace, a liar, a cheater, a whore, a bad person, a bad girlfriend, a piece of shit, etc. etc. (the list, truly, could continue). I zip my lips because the second a word escapes my lip to their contaray a diatribe of epic proportions will follow. I will be beaten to a pulp, scolded like a puppy, and whipped until I collapsed into a heap on the ground below. It’s not worth it to me anymore. I have nothing else.
I fucked up. I deserve to be reprimended. I do. I accepted my punishment. But, I’m being ripped in two different directions. My allegience lying with two women. My best friend, my former lover, my past partner… I owe it to her to protect and provide support during these painful days. I can’t cut her out. I already ripped her heart out, smashed her dreams, and burned our hopes and dreams alive. I left her hollowed out, broken, and changed forever. And now I’m supposed to just make everything better because of petty jealousy? Unwarranted jealousy. My word is good and true. That should be enough.
But, that would be too much to ask.
I’m tired of fearing the darkness of night. I literally stare at the clock awaiting the inevitible sunset where the monster that lies dormant within her during the daytime hours escapes from the pit of her cavernous insides. I’m tired of being yelled at. I am tired of hurting. I just want to go to sleep. I want to be able to lay down next to my girlfriend at night without a new emotional scar.
I want to wake up in the morning and not find blood stains on the carpet, on clothes, on skin, on tile, on glass, on razors, etc. We should not have to have a lifetime supply of gauze, butterfly bandages, and scar removing lotion in our cabinets. I just want to feel loved and normal for a fucking day.