‘When holding a knife to your throat, it is hard to wash behind the knees while showering.’ Safety message from the brain (it thinks there isn’t enough humor blogged).
I shower because it is what I love, and cannot do. I overheat. I love hot showers.
It has been two years since limbo. And I’ve fought every day. The hero’s path in wars against the mind is murky, always silent, never mentioned but one endless battle. I only want to write the story of my life, the life of silent wars into my skin, through my throat.
Being bipolar and depression don’t disappear. They rely on medications rejected by a melting brain. The erosion of the frontal lobe barriers makes me feel like a pichinko machine with a couple dozen steel balls rattling down me. My body shakes. That is probably from my heart, the upper chambers overcompensating, but I can’t make it stop anymore than I can make the whine of steel grinding on steel wheels that shrieks in my brain stop. Linda avoids talking about travel for work, which she has to do weekly, not because I am not calm and reasonable, but because while the words my mouth speak say calm I can’t STOP my face from showing hurt, loss and most of all jealousy. Outside.
This is Pounce, my number 2 friend. In four or five days I might see Linda, and that is all for humans. The workers are all new. They avoid me.
I lost a friend last week. They don’t want to come here because I bleed when I exercise. I fall, and I bleed and I pass out. It makes her ‘uncomfortable’. The red block on the bottom is a chemical burn, and the rest are bruises from a single fall of that day. I have six or seven chemical burns, until we pull off the Fentanyl tonight, then I’ll have more. GP doubled the breakthrough pill. If I want to live, I have to go on, alone. It makes me ‘uncomfortable’ too.
Other times my mind’s emotions are like a big ole’ pinball slamming a hit on panels, knocking them down, BAM, BAM, BAM. Now, like a prism, a word can reverberate until that is all I hear, and my emotions are projected, expanded. I stare at the hole the weeping sorrow bore through me. I know that I can’t control my emotional reactions but I keep trying. I tell myself, when she reacts back, that it isn’t anyone’s fault. Is that what she tells herself too, or did she forget that I'm in here fighting and frightened? I try, for years, to not cut this story into me, when I ache for it. This time when I fall, can I stay down?
So I took a bunch of dilaudid and drank booze from the bottle. I try to put it down, but can’t. Just drop it and take the knife into the shower.
How, after two years of trying to make a string too short meet, could it not be uncomfortable? I want to talk to my grandfather. How do I catch Linda from falling? How do I stop her from being too hard, and me from being too selfish? I did what I must to get to the next week or two and it cost me my last friend. When did my body stop being my friend? Now it makes me so alien that I hallucinate from the pain: waterfalls and horses are popular, but so are auditory hallucinations of two people having a conversation (the more exhausted I am, the more these two keep me awake). How tired do I have to be to sleep through a radio only I can hear?
I stagger in the shower, Linda says she see the broken-ness.
Just because I know where everyone WANTS me to go doesn’t mean I don’t feel lost too. I am supposed to be in free fall with a SPLAT ending but it isn’t like that. It is more like being guided along ramps until, I hope, there is a kill blow up ahead. But no, it is just more paperwork.
God, wouldn't a donut be sufficient about now? Succulant? Sugar. suitable? No, just satisfying.
6 hours ago