Shrink
<<2003-04-15 - 6:23 p.m.>>

I could still do it. Could still disappear. I haven't forgotten how.

Why is that so important to me? Why am I so intent on having the option of checking out? Why do I panic at the thought that I might forget how to hate myself?

Today is a limbo. A tightrope.

I don't know, I don't know, I don't know, and I don't think I want to.

There's a feeling of covering my head with my arms. A make-it-go-away feeling. Like I'm waiting for it to pass.

Don't touch me, don't talk to me, go away.

And maybe the scary thing is that I want so badly to retreat. I want to pull inside the shell. I want to hide. Fade away.

There's this faint voice saying rationally, "No, thanks, actually, how about you go talk to someone?" But that voice is quite faint. The vast majority of me is hard-faced and unquiet.

I'm fidgety. Fidget, fidget.

Go outside. Go anywhere. Go to the Sonia Sanchez reading. Go watch "Buffy" with Jami. Get out of this room, get out of yourself and your own hateful head, your head like quicksand. Get out, get out, get out.

Except it's the other way around.

Cringe.

This is irrational and I know it's irrational, and I don't care, which is kind of the scary part, the genuine absence of caring.

Wait, it's fine, it's just one day, you're not eight anymore, one bad day is okay.

I am scared of three years of bad days. What if it never comes 'round right?

And why don't I want to be here? Why am I playing invisible?

I will play sad songs that I haven't listened to for years (Tell me it's not true; say it's just a story...). Yes, yes, that will help.

Oh God. So little of me is resisting.

Why now? Can being reminded of being eight really be all this overwhelming?

This is ridiculous. Shut up. Ridiculous, ridiculous, ridiculous.

Ow; ow. Stop it.

<< - >>