woman, thou art loose
I run to stay still. I have no other approximation of an innate halcyon. Sometimes I run fast so that I can disintegrate and spread thin, like pollen, like Jean Baptiste Grenouille. Sometimes, things run over me. I carry on my spine the tire trails of psychosis.
Let’s not examine what transpired. For all the eidetic memory I have, there is no evident portrait of that evening or that hour or that moment. It is a nevus. It has latched itself into the folds of my repressed memory. Mute disfiguration.
Let’s assess the condition. Let’s be plain and parse it in the most simplistic language available. Let me not impinge on the borderlines of psychology and address this entirely clinically.
I felt it was undignified. Not particularly the choice of suicide but the snowballing of it into a free for all spectacle. I did not expect such a conundrum. For a quiet schizophrenic rooted in the interior praire of her own mental landscape, I have never spoken about my condition, neither have I woven my life around it. I detest the idea of a public audit. I primarily reached a breaking point because a certain set of stressors in my internal and external enviornments accrued their interest on the principal sum of my debilitating condition.
They said -
I felt a great sense of failure towards my profession. All my life, the mind has been my motto. Lately, I have increasingly failed to control the damages to my own mind. You are supposed to help, heal, get them better. If you are jumping off ledges, why should you even be allowed in these venerated halls. What good will you be able to do for others?
They said -
“For you, a very tight hug. You’ve helped me a lot, just trying to return the favor.”
You can go through your whole life blaming yourself for yourself. Primarily because you have refused to be jambed into the steady descant of “fitting in”. Day in, day out I hear the popular refrains of “emotionally unavailable”, “socially indifferent”, “closed”, “refuse to let anything take root into you”. What roots? I feel like a wasteland. Your roots would curl up and die. Turn to the shade of tar if embedded in me. You scream with hollow laughter because, hey, this whole rather fucked up state of being is about an *overdose* of emotions, not their lack. I have a lot I feel. My problem is that all my regulating mechanisms on these feelings are switched off and/or broken.
They said -
Even in the post mortem of a situation like this, you know somewhere that this was one battle for one day, the war is still looming dark like thick smoke over a pilfered horizon. You know that your time is limited. One of these days a botched up attempt can fix itself and expedite deliverance.
They said -
“Please wait until we have tea in a prison. It will be a shame not to meet once before you succeed.”
You also feel significantly idiotic for having reduced your own sense of self to something so myopic and fatuous. No one around you gains entry into the corrupt dialogue with self about how this can be a small incision and permanent release. Your familiarity with sharpened instruments, weapons of war, makes this a less hostile option.
You can not fix your brain. No one can. Your head pounds, the voices return intermittently. You feel dead and alive and dead and alive. And you constantly imagine methods and means of disappearing. You are a profiler so you have the added benefit of perfecting the mask. You know that it is a matter of time before you will harm self or harm others. I mean, its bound to happen?
You abhor your mind. You want to scythe its dimensions and beat it to pulp.
They said -
“I am hugging your brain right now.”
You fear for the future. You despair for the past. You haggle with the present. If this is the path to eventual collapse, let there not be a series of mini deaths, let there be the hammer of finality.
They said -
At each step, someone says something and you realise that sometimes without your own cognizance, you have entered a dazzle of fireflies into the darkness. That these little lights will shuttle, tumble, scuttle, fumble and shine no matter how opaque or navy the night may be. That you, who have lived a whole life a helot to steady emotional drudgery, will suddenly find that the kindness of strangers is not fictive. It beats quick like the heart of a newborn.
You find popluarmechanics , sultanas of salsette island , darklords , elk herders, ninja architects , dr god-botherer , little pais , harpy absinthe faeries, littler badabooms , emily ratcatchers , glass jars with golden words.
And many, many more. I will get to know you.
If you are considering a blade, make it 65 cms and an iron gripped nihonto. Battle it out.
Cause there is always some one who says,
Remember that. Always.
In every aloneness, there are invisible companions. Seek.
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