I am not really living in Denver today. I’ve spent the better part of my day in 1820 Germany, under the name Dortchen. I picked up the book looking for a good historical fiction to follow Cleopatra. I wanted less historic and more fiction. To my benefit, Kate Forsyth is a vivid artist, and gets inside the head of the reader, because the reader cannot help but be inside the character’s very soul. I’m about an hour away from the end, but I listened for about 5 solid hours today. I can’t do anymore.
I dream myself into forgetting I’m not in high school anymore, sometimes. I wake up thinking I’m waking up late for first period. I rush through the pile of clean clothes on the floor and I grab an oversized orange t-shirt. I am in my car and halfway down Corley before I realize that my sister is not here, and did not bother to wake me. I guess she got a ride, or isn’t going to school today.
Between classes I see myself, walking just ahead. I think it’s me, but I can’t be sure…a friend is calling my name. I turn, shaking off a sudden chill.
On Sunday morning I walk to the alter. I kneel before the cross that my 2nd step-father helped install. Before he left. The carpet is thicker than when I first started attending church. I forget what I came up here to pray about. I look upward, towards the cross, and see my father, risen again, lit up from behind by the light of the hall. The carpet loses it’s grip on my knees, and I slip away inside my head. I wake up again, in reality, trying to remember what page to turn to in my hymnal.
I think the reason I see my story everywhere, is that I am surrounded by other survivors. I love and hate that notion.
Time is flying by me at a break-neck pace. I am finding scraps of energy behind dirty video game consoles and under unsorted papers. The doctor (I saw a doctor) gave me 4 new substances to introduce into my body, which is now a chemical free-for-all. I feel gritty and wrong, too big for my skin and yet smaller than I expect when I look in a mirror. I feel the weirdness of drugs without the courtesy of consent. I feel tricked-or trickable. Easily misled, and betrayed. Pot doesn’t help this. lol If anything, it might be aiding this apparent paranoia.
Sleep…I need to sleep…but with sleep comes the sound bites from my book, phrase about Herr Wild forcing his daughters to pray at his feet…I wish drinking was the cure-all that phrases from childhood led me to believe. “I could use a drink” or “I’ll bet you want a drink now” or “Let me get you a drink for this” all made me think drinking would help soften a blow. Practical experience had taught me otherwise, but I wasnconvinced of my own lack of understanding. I’m not stupid, but I rarely see the full picture. I know that much.
I can’t tell if my neck is sore because I stretched incorrectly, or because I stretched at all. I feel layers away from my skin, and am trying to find where my body ends and the air around me begins. Usually there is a warm weight of numb that must be blown off by cool breezes. The weather will be warm when I come home in April, and I’m worried. But I’m generally worried. I’m looking for reasons to worry. Worrying will keep me awake and I don’t want to sleep. I feel like Groover in a book I loved as a child.
Matt’s snoring louder than my typing, and I’m in the next room over. Maybe I shouldn’t have baked cookies.
I need to sleep. Jared said that looking at a screen the last 30-60 before you sleep is bad for you. Now I have a flashlight, and can curl up in bed and read my nightstand book like I’m nine years old and safe. I should do that. I’m afraid that once I get more than 200 pages in, and I care, someone is gonna get raped. I need stories that don’t involve rape, please. I’m so glad we can talk about it, but where can I go to not talk about it?