I cross each thing off as a small victory. Yesterday I bathed the boy, brushed through his tangles, ran the dishwasher. Boiled eggs. Dealt with with 2 televisits. Today I’ve bathed the dog, listened to music, restlessly prowled all my folders, burning for something to make. I hope to take a shower later, even.
I think about the scalpel as much as I think about everything that’s led me to this moment in time. I think about scarification. About a lovely paisley design decorating my left inner forearm – the one with the old scars, with the blood oath tattoo I gave to a God.
I think: a few cuts won’t hurt.
I think: turn the need to spill blood into art.
I think this is all a ruse to simply get the blade in my hand. Once I hold it, for whatever reason, it’s only a matter of time. There’s a reason cutting instruments were banned from my house for so many years.
What hurts the most about feeling good, having good days, is knowing it won’t last. Knowing anything can – will – push me back to the floor. I’ll have a bad health day, or unlock another memory, anything, or even nothing at all, and I’ll have to fight tooth and nail to not give in to the scalpel’s high, lonesome cry.
Why not just … get rid of them?
Because I don’t know where they are. Well, two of them. One is in a drawer less than six feet from where I sit, but it’s been used as a tool so much that it’s no good for cutting. I may be suicidal but I’m not stupid – or desperate – enough to try cutting on myself with a dull blade covered in old, sticky pot resin.
The other two are clean and pristine, shiny new. Perfect for drawing paisley on skin. I don’t dare go looking for them. I don’t want to see them real; in my daydreams is hard enough.
Well. This is certainly a post to drop here after more than a year of silence. What was once supposed to be a blog about crawling out of the wreckage of thirty years worth of abuse – about rediscovering myself – is now likely to be derailed by the utter shitstorm of PTSD that I’ve been crawling through the last year.
I’m hoping to be like Andy Dufresne, crawl through a river of shit and come out clean on the other side. I’m desperately afraid my arms will give out and I’ll drown face first in this mess. If only I had Morgan Freeman narrating, maybe that would give me a better chance.
(Although lbr here, Samuel L Jackson would be a much more fitting narrator for me.)
Anyway. I guess this now a new form of recovery blog; one that deals with the 50 years of abuse. Whee. Aren’t you excited?
Well, today a friend told me this sorry tale
As he stood there trembling and turning pale
He said each day’s harder to get on the scale
Sort of like Jacob Marley’s chain.
But it’s not like life is such a veil of tears
It’s just full of thoughts that act as souvenirs
For those tiny blunders made in yester-years
That comprise Jacob Marley’s chain.
Well, I had a little metaphor to state my case
It encompassed the condition of the human race but to my dismay,
It left without a trace except for the sound of Jacob Marley’s chain.
Now there is no story left for me to tell so I think
I’d rather just go on to hell where there’s a snowball’s chance
That the personnel might help to carry Jacob Marley’s chain