One Art

What are the repercussions of staying off my medication? It feels strange to call it that; it’s a word I associate with pills someone takes when they are physically ill.

Strangely, I’m smiling up at the ceiling right now. A memory just came to mind. The walls to my bedroom used to be a dark purple color, and I remember sitting on the cold marble floor, with a blood-stained towel in my hand. My mother and I had just argued, and fought, I guess is the appropriate word. I think my lips were bleeding, or something like that. The pain was overwhelming, but not really in a physical way. And for all that pain, I couldn’t cry. And I couldn’t call anyone to explain in words what that moment in time felt like.

All I have are distant memories that don’t seem to belong to my life.

The puzzle pieces don’t fit. How did I become who I am now? There are such sharply contrasting memories in my mind. My mother, my brother, and I at Sea World for Easter three years ago. Days in which I sat in my room all alone, and in the dark, with a razor in my hand, cutting myself. Standing outside the house waiting for one of my aunts to pick me up because my mom kicked me out. Having a conversation with Brian at an iHop about what I’m going to do to improve my relationship with my mother. Showing Elizabeth and Jean a bruise my mother gave me, telling someone for the first time ever that I had problems. Sitting in my room with a knife in my hand at a very early age, thinking I could use that to slit my wrists. Getting strapped onto a gurney to be hospitalized. My US History teacher from 5th grade, Mrs. Bright, asking me why I used my mother’s last name instead of my father’s. Disneyland with the most amazing people in the world 11th grade. Shopping with Lisa and Jessika. Passing a note to Paula in Honors Bio that one day in 9th grade after she mentioned that she also web-designs. And right now, typing this entry with mixed feelings.

As stupid as this sounds, who am I?

I feel like here I am again, talking to myself. I’m not trying to make any points. And I’m not trying to prove anything to anyone. While there are questions I could ask myself, there are no answers. Yet again, another pointless entry.

Emotions. They really are weak. I’ve been having that thought for some days now. Perhaps for a while I thought they were alright, acceptable, maybe normal. But, no. My mentality really has not changed at all. Weakness is unacceptable. Except if I keep thinking about it, everything is weak.

I just don’t get it.

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Now playing: Gatsbys American Dream – A Mind Of Metal And Wheels
via FoxyTunes

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1 Comment

  1. WOW. Your post both intrigued me and depressed me. *lol* I’m not even sure how to respond or what to say. I can relate a bit to your “memories” issue. I have a handful of memories that to this day don’t feel as if they’re truly mine. It’s a strange feeling at best.
    x despair

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