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[personal profile] quirkytizzy
Medical risks. I am a "Self-injury risk". Obviously. I am also a "Fall Risk", a thing hospitals take seriously, as it turns out. The Fall Risk follows me home just as the SI risk does, at least lately. I weave about the apartment like a girl at her third bar on her 21st birthday. I slur my words. It's been quite significant lately. The exhaustion is becoming heavier than the rocks they used to place on witches to make sure they sank into the river.

(Because only the guilty would drown with hundreds of pounds of stone upon their chests, right? Fuck the Salem Witch Trials.)

Thank god for overflowing piles of laundry for my ass to fall on. And walls. And occasionally chairs and couches. Not the cats, though, which sometimes happen to be the unlucky recipient of my unsteady limbs. Poor things.

I've realized that perhaps I've been too hard on David, at least in a couple of instances. He once wrote about cutting as if it were the only option other than suicide. And when phrased like that, it's a perfectly practical thing to say. Of course cutting is safer than leaping off a bridge.

But I LAMBASTED him for his phrasing. I felt such contempt that he would line up two and only two self-destructive behaviors as coping skills. And yet....

Here I am, finding myself stuck in the same dichotomy. Swimming between sharks and piranhas, and trying to figure out which is the safest to be bit by. The sane answer is "GTFO out of the water, you idiot!"

But as much as I'd like to make cocktail buddies between myself and sanity, it's a thing that can't ever be done in unison.

I'm tired. The longer I'm tired, the murkier things get. The murkier things get, the clearer blood sounds.

Someday I'll look at all this as progress, or at least bravery in being able to share the blow-by-blow agony of it all. Right now, though, I'm just very tired. Very tired and feeling almost as if I owe David an apology.


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