They caught me, for once.
They made me confess my faults and scars.
They're going to medicate me,
take my life away from me,
tell me I'm a symptom of my disease.
But I hate to tell you of my hurts
because yours are so much greater
and you bear them so much better
than I.
but it seems that these clumsy words
could be my last.
My last chance for
a connection
a salvation
anything to make me want to wake.
Nobody likes you if you're sad.
That's what I was told.
If I gave a second's thought to the way I live, I would say that I keep to myself.
That's all I have for now.
Do something for me the next time you watch The Wizard of Oz. Pay close attention when the Wicked Witch of the West is melting. She says something to the effect of, "You've destroyed my lovely wickedness!" Those may not be the exact words, but you get the picture. Ponder that. There's a story behind those words. There's something more to that witch than a comic and ineffectual villan. Imagine a world where those who are supposedly 'good' are so corrupt and self-righteous that they could drive the witch to do anything to thwart them. It's sad to think that this is the kind of world that I live in, but I shouldn't be surprised.
Now this is what I've learned since last night: You have to take your pain and turn it into something that matters. Anything can be overcome. I've reached the lowest depths that I've seen so far in my life, and now I have to decide whether or not I want to climb out again.
I've reached those nights again. The ones where the cuts don't bleed, and the eyes only drip tears because fire has leeched the moisture from my room. I can't claim to understand this numbness. I only sleep because I know that I should, and the white pills back up the belief.
I've tried- to cry, to bleed, to hurt- but I'm still loost in this god-forsaken nothingness. I want pain, I want any feeling, so I can spew words across pages and fill them with the part of my soul that I kept.
That's it, isn't it? I've lost my soul, given it to someone who does not want it. If only I knew how to get it back.
....god-forsaken.
That's a word to remember.
The holidays have ever been a stressful, near-disastrous time of year for me. Now, I try to keep calm, but this is a hard trick to pull with family members who consistently overreact to circumstances. A single dish gets overcooked, and wham! Holiday's ruined. Maybe this Santaday will be better. However, I'm not going to get my hopes up.
I've already discerned that one of my gifts is some sort of jewelry. Weird. I don't give or receive the stuff, I'm much more fond of music. Or obscenely large stuffed creatures.
Oh! I must mention a little incident of a week ago. Now, without my medication, I am prone to insomnia, nightmares, and waking constantly. Betimes I have even woken myself screaming. It's a short story: I woke up in darkness, I'd say about 2-4 am. I saw a person-shaped something not two feet from my face, closed my eyes, and shrieked. When my eyes opened, it was gone. I then awoke more fully, and it took my some time to resume sleep
I hadn't missed my meds, so it wasn't a figment of withdrawals. It may have been a dream, I admit, but it had the quality of the dreams that come to be. Let me explain. I have these short flashes, from my own perspective, of a scene with no context. They're nothing out of the ordinary, and this is what makes them peculiar. Most dreams have no logic and are highly symbolic. These dreams are logical, quite mundane, and only a few seconds long. I'll see teachers speaking, the stuff on the floor of my room, and the covers of albums. Then, a few weeks later, those nonsense scenes happen. The person shaped thing, if I dreamt it, was most likely a premonition. Usually, if I tell someone of the premonition, it does not come to pass. This is why I am recounting the story. I do not want to see that again, for it scared the life out of me.
Yes. That's right. I'm dead.
I forgot, until about 10:40, and it was a need for some sort of influence to be under that drove me to seek my medication. I counted the pills, there were three left. I don't know why I counted. I've counted them every night for the past week, and I know that Friday night I will have nothing to swallow. So I ate one, I had no other choice. Three days, I thought. Three days until a nightmare begins. Life becomes a fever-dream. Forgive me if I'm a little less than thrilled.
I probably could have gone out, or at least seen some people who would relieve the monotany. But going out would mean coming home again, and I don't think that I could stand that. Though it may not have done any good for my antisocial tendencies, I decided to abstain. Sometimes, just staying home and taking in a Cure album can be really nice.
I woke up this morning much the worse for a longer night's sleep than those I have had of late. I sleepwalked down the road to the gas station. I looked over my shoulder often, as I heard leaves rustling and suspected the worst from the rustler. I assume that my paranoia will abate in November. I downed twenty ounces of coffee before school was even in sight, and the only change in my temperament is increased irritation because I'm waiting to get a pass to the bathroom. I'll probably be directing rehearsal again, and I expect my shoulders to be in knots before three. When I get home I will be craving the drug again, and there I will be, right back where I started.
I know you. I know you because you were once me, and one day I will be you. Detachment grows as days and months go by. I put myself through agonies, working to deserve the memory of you. You are the image of perfection that I carry with me, to remind me that there is still something ahead. When I am tired, suffering, or afraid, I remember you, and tell myself that if someone like you cannot exist in my life, then I will become you. I will fill that void.
But you don't feel fear, do you? And I've seen you smile at your own agony. When you catch your own reflection on accident, you are never startled by the person that you see. Through the years you will remain, implacable, unhurt, and maybe someday I will meet you. In finding you, I may find myself.
These are my secrets, so I'm passing them on to you. You're starting to see it, too- the heroes that you loved weren't always what they claim. They're atoning. They never used to care, but now they have a debt to repay. No one is pure.
The cold ones, the cruel ones- we never wanted to be this way. We wanted to be warm, and loving, and surrounded by friends. We extended our hands in welcome. No one took them. And realizing our plight, we closed our hands into fists and turned away. Have you felt it, too? You hate because you hurt. Maybe someday you'll be like me- detached and puzzled- and miraculously unscathed. It doesn't hurt to be like me. Not one little bit. I don't hate anyone. I don't know anyone.
Havok told me that I don't have to be afraid. Bert taught me how to smile and to scream. "I'm always alright," is what The Doctor said. Now his words are mine as well. Raistlin showed me how to be cruel, and his brother taught me how to forgive. Because of Elphaba, I never forget. For Van I learned how to fly. Howard Roark killed what was left of my pity, and Dominique approved when I learned to be cold. But Vanyel showed that the ice will kill you, and that love, once earned, will always return. These are the things I know. This is what I will remember.
