There I go again, idolizing pathos. Glamorizing sickness. Idealizing scars and stripes and plasticine rosary beads of hospital bracelets. Self destruction is honey on this tongue and I have been stung by every drone in the hive.
Perhaps it is a symptom of this pervasive emptiness I feel, persistently like a delusion of persecution, within my bones.
I am craving regression as if it were a nicotine rush or an unquenchable thirst. The clinging to the razor wire fences rimming hospitals like medieval moats and my mossy veins seem to beg to be ripped apart but I cannot bring myself to dig in deeply enough to end up at the inpatient unit’s doors.
Not that I would want that.
But I suppose one’s sense of identity can become heavily entrenched in the sovereignty of struggle. One can transmute into their pathology, sliding into the strait jacket of symptomatology as if it were a second, battle scarred skin. One can be impatient for inpatient stays as if they were wedding days or executions after long spells in reformatories. One can ache for the Auschwitz of day programs, sonorously penning rhetoric of coping skills like dotted Pacific blue needlepoint on the spinal tapped lines of theme paper.
Because existence is so much more than pain, but when one is in pain, pain is all that there is.
It is simple to dissolve. Easy to break apart pencil sharpeners and trip into gaping wormholes of relapse. It is easy to become tubes and cuts and bandaged mummies of meshed gauze breathing through the siphoned tunnels of triage tents while head psychiatrists stroke the stubbled mountains of their chins, unsure of the favoring towards life or death.
It is facile to be stitched. To make oneself into a patchwork quilt of sutures and struggle like a dystopian flag. A dissonant anthem.
But what’s to be done when you have grown tired of the grayness? Of picking over the dead issues and combing through the splinters of the wreckage? What else can be achieved when one is stuck in purgatory?
Regression, of course, is so much more attainable. All I have to do is open arteries and slam doors and leave bite marks in my wrist to be heard. All I have to do is overdose or scream and suddenly I’m in hell again but it’s perfect bliss. It’s more comfortable to work towards sliding backwards when the future seems to be an uphill battle.
How does one release the grip of their fingernails on the past?
Existence s so much more than pain, but when one is in pain, pain is all that there is.
“I dreamt of you, of you in the bath with me. I dreamt of your body weight, of your lips & how soft they were, & you were gentle the way I remember you to be. I dreamt of us making love in the water & I woke up wanting to choke. I woke up & realized I’ve been drowning.”—Moriah Pearson, your absence: the hands holding my body under the surface (via mooneyedandglowing)
“I’m afraid of time… I mean, I’m afraid of not having enough time. Not enough time to understand people, how they really are, or to be understood myself. I’m afraid of the quick judgements or mistakes everybody makes. You can’t fix them without time. I’m afraid of seeing snapshots, not movies.”—Ann Brashares (via onthequinox)