Monday, October 19, 2015

Super Glue.

I have not felt worse, than I do right now, possibly.  Mentally, I mean.  I mean in my brain, all the chemicals, and synapses, and cells are doing something wretched, like playing a joke on me and seeing if they can make me cry.  But I’m not crying.  I am just growing more and more scared of how fucking awful my thoughts and emotions are… No… how little I’m thinking at all… how little I feel… like other human feelings. 

 I feel inhuman.  I feel like I am not a person.  I am not Joanna.  I am not a mother.  I don’t know why I’m here, who these children are, what I’m doing.  I’m not even asking those questions though.  I’m just sitting numbly waiting for Klonopin to help me--I’m praying it will help me.  I feel like I’m going to die.  I feel like a person might feel who is about to die, feeling the life drain out, and there is no ability to control anything like death, because it just happens, and it’s happening to me and I see darkness and part of me doesn’t care, as long as it’s over quickly. If there was a black hole, so
deep and dark, and I could just tip over into it… just tip over and let myself go, that sounds so beautiful and perfect and less scary than sitting and staring numbly at things that should be familiar to me, and should be tangible and bring me some reality and comfort… or just a feeling of space.  If there was a black hole, so deep and dark, and I could just tip over into it… just tip over and let myself go, that sounds so beautiful and perfect and less scary than sitting and staring numbly at things that should be familiar to me, and should be tangible, and bring me some reality and comfort… or just a feeling of space.  That I exist in a space that I belong.

Over quickly.  

That’s how life is, or how people have contorted my life:  Here then gone.  Bam!  Wrists touching, than strangers.  Bam!  
Best friend, disappears.  Gone.  In a moment, so quickly.  
People disappear.  
I disappear.  I come back? 
 I come back.  I am in limbo far too often, spliced with a time guillotine.  The clean cut makes it easy to press the sides back together and make me look okay.  Just run a washcloth over the thin line of blood, (wipe it right off), and the skin barely has a seam.  

It’s not worth sewing up, right now.  It’s not worth it, because it keeps happening: The dropping of the blade: swoosh, slice, clank. Klonopin and alcohol are like a super glue that keeps patching me up.  I can’t breathe and then I can.  I can at least breathe. But I know what's coming. And I can feel that the two sides of me aren't truly connected.


God. I know. I know. The seam leaks, it happens, and then I'm in two again. Don't tell me you know how to fix that.

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