"Only once, and very late at night, did I run downstairs and out into the street with my pajamas on, gasping and watering, waiting for something-- a car? an angel?-- to come rescue or kill me, but there was nothing, only streetlights and a cat."
-Lorrie Moore, Anagrams
I was tired in more ways than could be scribbled down-- bone-tired in a way that couldn't be written, could only be felt. But as that destitute burned away, I felt it in its entirety. Feeling the consuming fire of anger and frustration rise like flames, my own disgust fueling the fire, I realize now I've been burning all along. In my immediate past, I scared myself with the things I was able to do. I could go from watching a sunset and bouts of inspiration to wanting to claw into myself, tear into my skin-- to the desperation that wrecks and weeps and ruins. The pain began to taste sweet where it once tasted bitter. I began harming myself.
For me, I became wrapped up in the "poetry" of the darkness. But that's the thing-- there is no poetry in pain. It's painful. Nobody cares, I would wail. It was just that people didn't notice. Everyone has their own reality; self-awareness is a feat in itself; who a person is, who I was, was relative. It mattered only who I was to them. For this, I put myself in a box, torn between wanting a rescue and wanting to slam the door. The perfume, the lipstick, the crisp dresses were all just wallpaper over rotting walls, flimsy barricades against the shame and disgust that I harbored for myself. Each day, each weary morning, I carried this weight around, this burden, waiting for the stains to, I don't know, seep through, for everyone to see and be horrified. The anticipation of that moment coiled deep inside, whispering fear and regret and grief. So I harmed myself further.
In my mind, I felt like I was destined to carry sadness. I still think that, in some ways, I am. I'll always be a little bit sadder than my friends. I feel deeply, but I think that acknowledging these emotions helps me better myself, evolve. I think it's the reason that I love writing in the ways that I do. Still, I carried it and felt that no matter how many times I let myself re-imagine this scenario, it was always going to lead me to here. It was always going to end with me in a room, sad for small reasons and unable to step outside of that veil. I was just going to struggle.
"There must be things that can save us!" I wanted to shout. "But they are just not here."
I am still working through my demons, but I am working on it in ways that I didn't let myself before.