My hair is creased from the ponytail I wore all day. “All day” being the collective term for the amount of time I was functional today, which was minimal.
My experiment has peaked in my mind, and I linger on the boundaries of “well, now what the fuck do I do?” once more. I’m still working the last game plan, hoping the drawing board is not in my immediate future. Maybe it’s just been a quiet few days.
My meds have been upped by the doctor. Not by much, but maybe it will help. I hate beyond words the return of prescription meds into daily life. Side effects suck, and withdrawal always kills. I wish my mind was stronger without chemical buffers. I do maintain fairly well, all things considered…
I flashed with a new partner last night. Someone I didn’t think I’d flash with, for purely gendered reasons. New memories are a regular afront now, and apparently it affects everything. There is a new image or a new sound almost every day, and I keep asking myself where they’ve come from…I didn’t live with the man during most of the year…always in small snippets, though. Like opening a champagne bottle slowly, feeling the cork give way centimeter by centimeter, singular cells edging over the glass lip.
I don’t talk about them much because they are only jarring to me. How a shaft of sunlight reflected on the sheen of the coffee table. The path a bead of sweat dripped down my neck, giving me chills in the humid night. Footsteps, walking and pausing, outside of my door. After years of healing, these are the remaining memories. They seem so mild and passive. Why do they take such a toll?
My body takes part in memories now, so that could be the difference. I struggle keeping food down from slivers of sensation. All memories at this stage are body memories. I feel the panic in my belly, the light-headedness, the self-disgust at unwanted arousal. I think the waves of shame and depression that follow the memories cost me more than the images themselves. Thankfully, this wash of self-hatred comes at a time when my mind is convinced that I belong alive, and that I even deserve happiness. My mind has been taking care of me again without my knowledge, only allowing me as much as I can process. Three years ago these body memories would have been the end of me. Now I love the small moments of bliss between terror more than I seek reprieve from living nightmares. The good times are worth the bad, even if the bad might currently outweigh the good. And really, the only bad is in my head. My life is beyond privileged. I just can’t think straight. My trauma keeps showing.
This morning I watched the walls in my room melt into Jim’s house, and wondered at how much money I could make if only I could bottle my crazy. People pay for visuals like that. If it weren’t horrible and nearly routine, it might be cool.
I asked for help. I reached out. And I found help, as I always do, from good friends. But it’s nothing that anyone can fix. I just sit with it, lie with it, soak in it, until time passes and reality includes me in her design again. Sitting and breathing deeply helps more than running. Hiding gives me comfort, albeit fleeting. Eventually I have to dig my head out of the sand and the sun blinds me. Easier to just breathe through the insanity. I’ve come out the other side every time so far.
The scarring on my breasts casts shallow shadows in the laptop light. One reason kink is healthy for me is the visibility it gives to my body, and thus a huge deterrent from self-injury. New marks would be greeting with concern from those who know me best, and excited curiosity from those who are mere acquaintances. I wouldn’t be able to hide anything. Even my sudden reservations at being seen would cause questions. Now if only there were a solution to the feelings of desire to open up my skin…if I could translate them into a healthy outlet…maybe I should try jogging. I’m smaller now, and with a sports bra, maybe it’ll be just enough pain to keep me sated until the release from healthy exercise kicks in…it’d help my asthma, anyways…
I want to make pumpkin pie. Or apple crisp. Or some sort of baked good. I could use more baked goods.
Dolores Umbridge is one of the scariest characters of my generation. I hope I can write such awfully real traits into a page one day. “Because you know, deep down, that you deserve to be punished. Don’t you, Mr. Potter?” Don’t I?
I must sleep. My mind wanders and I’ve stopped throwing up long enough to write, so I might be able to sleep. I don’t even know what I’m saying, if anything makes any sense. I’m just drained emotionally. I have tons of space and time to be doing, and instead I am exhausted, lost in the labyrinth. Every turn leads me to another truth, and I can’t hold them all at once…maybe I need a better filing system.
The leaves keep changing, and have started to fall. I crunch around town and try to feel my body, feel the world I’m inhabiting rather than the past I survived. Right now, I just don’t feel anything.