r (affectsmynerves) wrote,
r
affectsmynerves

it's only that damn i looked good when i was on the verge of death. maybe i looked to everyone else like i was dying because of some small animal trapped behind my eyes but i didn't see it and i don't still when i look back. my advisor told me when i first came to see her again after my hospitalization that i looked like i was doing better and i didn't understand what that meant, or was it--that i looked like i was thriving? she said? i think i look thriving in these pictures of me being barely more than an animated corpse, maybe because i need to believe it wasn't obvious. or maybe because i am working with a different definition of thriving. i think, well, i was still alive and that was something, wasn't it? a way to thrive is to obstinately still be hanging around.

i don't feel like i have a body so much anymore. i see my body and i think, oh, huh, this again. it's like seeing the same squirrel over and over. a curiosity. in my school library, there's a selection of curio cases full of books of dubious value, and one of them was no one may ever have the same knowledge again, which is a funny kind of museum book to put in a smaller museum. my copy is just in the museum called my closet. i'm just in the museum called my body which is in the museum called our apartment which is in the museum called this town et cetera. do i not feel like i have a body anymore because of the dissolution of my relationship? because it's winter more or less? because i'm not running or anything? because of the endless memories of rape? oh, this again. oh the red-speckled stretchmarks like someone dug his fingers in just moments before. oh, an arm.

each morning, it's a struggle to drink my coffee. it tastes like a solid object.

if i keep feeding myself books, maybe i'll again be obstinately still hanging around, forever and ever. that always used to be the hallmark for me of depression, the dwindling of reading ability, so i gotta keep to it, because if you erase all your symptoms? i forgot to take my pills, oh. maybe one day i won't be on all these pills. that is the goal, i think, with ptsd. it is theoretically one of those things that can be worked through. the pills are a stopgap, a way to let you practice being okay until you actually are. or. did i make that up? i'm afraid to check. i don't know which way i want it.

each morning, i identify for myself the shape of the day. today i am half-asleep. today is nice. today is a bundle of nerves and fear. today, i awoke from thick-throated dreams of visiting melissa, of dancing with darrian like we were both mechanical-legged ballerina dolls, and she asked me, "are you a boy or a girl right now?" and i said, "darrian, i missed you," and some kind of bald man somewhere had somehow cut his nothing into blonde bangs. today, i checked the weather widget on my phone and it said today is green + rain. that sounds real. my head sounds soft. my pillow head knocking around on my shoulders. there's still coffee pooling/cooling in the mug. i still haven't taken the pills. i need to leave in less than twenty minutes. i typed that i need to live in twenty minutes. also true. leaving is entering into aliveness whether wanted or not.

it feels bad, yes. 
Tags: a thing about body problems, a thing about brain problems, dream journal, famous in a small town, progress wrt healing
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