Alice.

Monday April 2, 2007

I lay in my bed sometime around oh-dark-hundred and stare at the ceiling. Eventually the ceiling loses its appeal and I roll to my side and stare in that direction for an indeterminate amount of time. Track after track stream by on my iPod. Rock, metal, club, rave, jungle, and even a little classical are rolled into one long beat.

I'm broken, and my eyes burn from tears that won't come.

I've lost my concentration on the material world. I fear that I am bi-polar, then laugh internally at how stupid that seems in comparison to my other troubles. The first impression of my shrink is that he's an asshole. It's never good to get off on that foot.

I think of all the ways I can get out of my head for a little while, and a KMFDM song flashes through my memory. All we want is to get out of our heads for a little while. My disturbingly long and sharpened fingernails click softly against the keyboard. Occasionally I mis-type because of my nails pressing the keys independent of my fingers and I wonder why I keep them that way, black nail polish chipping with age, and remember just how sharp I can keep them. I understand that that particular road is a dangerous one to tread; but I have been doing so slowly and carefully.

My sword is blunt, the cheap 440 steel imitation that is is, but my knife is very sharp. I'm not sure how the medications I'm on would effect blood clotting. My blood is red, just like yours. In my uniqueness, I am the same as everyone else.

Not everyone has been through a war. Some live in blissful ignorance of the problems of others. They don't stub their toes, have relationships drift apart or crumble outright. These people are either blessed or cursed, for if anything were to happen to them they would break.

I've never been in a war, where you kill those in different uniforms than you because you have to. You need to. Because they'll do the same to you for the same reasons. Where hate is less of an issue than raw survival. Internal wars, though, are a different matter.

All gross generalizations are false; even this one. Straight-A students, mothers on the PTA, fathers of football scholarship winners. These know not of internal hardship and struggle. Amputees know. Those with mild seizures or paralysis understand the feeling that their body is not their own. My body is not my own — and never has been. Living has been a hardship and a struggle. I'm wearing down, and while this fact alone does not worry me, the fact that it doesn't worry me worries me.

I'm tired, and I'm broken, and there's no-one is around who can put me back together.

— Alice.