May. 22nd, 2017

quirkytizzy: (Default)
I haven't hurt myself yet. I won't today. That's all I can promise. I can't promise I won't spend all day wanting to. I can't promise that I won't spend all day trying not to drown in this ocean, or that I'll slip and my head will go under for a few moments of desperate insanity and exhaustion.

But I can promise that I won't hurt myself today. If I have to sit on my hands for a full 24 hours today, or likely hide away from my mind by trying to shut it down under the blankets, I WILL NOT HURT MYSELF.

This is what the voices are saying to me. I don't have any way to write out what they are really saying, because while they are screaming, they're still whispering just enough to mishear words.

Is it a game for them? Is it a game for me?


"You and I go deep like water
You and I run red like blood
You know my darkest secrets
I know what you're made of...

It's a heavy load to carry
And I can't hold on much more...

I've so much more to tell myself
We're running out of time
It's dark and dangerous treading
Oceans in my mind

I can't survive for both of us
I can't hold back the waves
This ocean isn't big enough for both of us

Up all night, I held your hand
While I wandered in the dark
I know I can't make myself better
When all I want to be is lost...

It's a brilliant game I play
When I lock myself away
And I make everyone fight for me, fight for me..."

Not wrong

May. 22nd, 2017 01:32 pm
quirkytizzy: (Default)
I've slept long enough where my body can no longer stay prone, but my mind is soup. I suppose that's not such a bad place to be. It means the energy needed to indulge in self-destruction is not there.

The utterly, overwhelmingly depressed and the furious, raging out of my mind places - those are the two states I am safest to myself in.

It means not living a life, but it might mean saving mine, if only for one more day.

More bad news about my mother, who is insane and disconnecting completely from reality in a rage-fueled state of threats and vile blame on anyone who comes near her. EXCEPT, of course, when medical staff is in the room, in which case she is an angel.

I told Cassie to use her phone to record it when she loses her shit. And if she can get her involuntarily committed, my mother won't be able to hold it together for long. She'll lose it and it will all be on record.

I'm too tired to get into more right now, except to say this:

It took 25 years for the tipping point to become piled upon enough to fall over. And I told them 25 years ago this would happen. I saw things no one else saw and I told them where those things would lead.

Every notice how it's only adults who say things like "For once, I'd like to be wrong."

I'd like to be wrong. But I wasn't wrong then and I am not wrong now.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Somedays all I can do is write.

One entry. Two entries. Three or four entries. It keeps my hands busy. It gives flesh to the voices and brings them into the light. It is the only thing I know how to do - and the only thing I am occasionally good at. It builds the wall around the worst parts of myself, or else it builds the door the monsters can flee through.

My mother was a writer, decades and decades ago. A good writer at that. But somewhere along the line she traded in the pen for a cage. She never realized that a pen can be the very key OUT of that cage.

She tried to destroy my key when she burned my journals. But she also didn't realize that while keys can be hard to find, pens are readily available. There was never a pause in the words I continued to write, no matter how many times she tried to take them away from me.

The pen may not really be mightier than the sword, but what's written lasts far longer than any spilled blood that melts into the earth. I hold onto that as sacred.

I ramble. I babble. I do this to fill the time. The endless hours where I cannot sleep or cannot hide under the blankets, cannot pick up a book, cannot engage in meaningful verbal conversation with Jesse...this is my busywork.

This is also to track the ups and downs, each chasing the other on their heels, hot and heavy breath with teeth just bursting with eagerness to sink themselves into my skull. It raises and falls so fast lately. Typical bi-polar stuff, made less typical by lupus, ungodly medications, and a sleep schedule that resembles a scatter of shotgun shells than anything focused with a scope.

I write so much. I am amazed anyone can keep up on this. I can barely keep up on it myself.

But it keeps my hands busy in those moments when I cannot otherwise keep them shoved under a pillow, to clench and release the softness and comfort.

Mine will never be a peaceful life. It will always include a mind that tortures itself for fun and scars that ache in the winters of the soul. It will always be dotted with bonfires that I must walk straight through to get to the other side.

"I will always fall and rise again,
Venomous and howling,
'Cause I am a survivor....

I will always fall. I will always tumble into the empty crevices of the earth, striking ledges over and over again on the long way down.

And I will always claw my way back up to very top of the hole, heels bleeding, ribs split in pieces, broken fingers clawing into the crumbling earth.


quirkytizzy: (Default)

October 2017

1 23456 7
151617 18192021

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Oct. 24th, 2017 11:28 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios