I’ve been sitting numbly in this rickety chair in your personal waiting room for the past three hours. The same old familiar sounds are shrieking their piercing suggestions in my ear, and my perpetual visitor looms in the corner waiting for me to get back.
A part of me wishes you could see the claws and talons lodged in my back and ribs; but I tried to stand strong and stoic for your examination. I’ve learned to not cry so much anymore, so you can think I’m finally OK. It never did anything but embarrass me anyways; after all, I think you don’t understand my tears because you can’t see the wounds- you can’t see them or hear them. But they’re standing just over in the corner.
Is my own discipline of secrecy and suppression killing me- or is it the only thing holding me together?
I don’t want to make you too feel helpless or uncomfortable, so I didn’t look for the words to answer how I ended up here. You asked me how long it had been since I’d let anyone see me.
“Years,” I replied; but then realized I had only said it in my head. I nodded vaguely.
As soon as I’m alone again, I finally take a breath and sigh deeply. I can’t for another minute ignore the torment scouring every nerve ending in my body. It’s been worse than I remember it being, while I was lost in the naivety of the day or two that it was gone. There’s no refuge or cessation as there usually is.
Did I take two,three, or four?
I roll the bottle back and forth in my hands, contemplatively. The phone rings and I lose count again. I can’t remember shit anymore. If it’s been hurting for weeks or months- I can’t tell, because the days blend together so swiftly I can’t discern one’s ending from another’s beginning. The pain stabs it’s rousing reminder, interrupting my thoughts and I finally release my inhibitions to relapsing again.
But now there’s blood everywhere; though not enough for the pain- and I realize what a fucking stupid thing I’ve done again;Too much, too fast and there’s blood soaked through my shirt and favorite jacket. Sure it’s got its rips, patches, and cigarette holes; but I’ve always refused to let go of it, like it’s some old friend or such.
My vision starts spinning, and goes completely blurry. I’m feeling a bit disconcerted this time because now I’ve found myself out in the hills again, feeling a bit faint and delirious, and my legs are shaking just enough to frustrate the trek home. The throbbing pain at the base of my skull intensifies and I steady myself on a rock, feeling my stomach lurch threateningly against my diaphragm. I wish my stomach would stop wasting my time and I could actually throw up for once; Maybe it would help.
I realized maybe I wasn’t best to be by myself tonight; I usually try to not to let it get this far, and all the little “if you ever need anything”s were echoing in my head. But last time I did that I ended up getting locked up. I wouldn’t want to survive it again.
Then there it was again, increasing in volume and urgency; the familiar siren that something was very, very wrong. It had been a while, so I simply ignored it, along with every other sign yelling at me that some unknown factor was ready to imminently implode if I didn’t fix it. I ignored them too. The horizon was still rather far off and continuing to grow increasingly blurry, but I kept walking toward it anyways- unsure of where I was headed or would end up this time.