Saturday, December 26, 2015

The South Isn't for Me

You know that feeling...that feeling when you're doing okay...okay enough to notice that you're pretty okay so you say it? It's like, "Damn! I'm okay and have been for a little while now."

Once you put it out into the universe it heads South. Nobody wants to go South. It's too fucking hot and humid there. Going South for like a long weekend is all I can stand, and I used to live there.

Even if you don't say it out loud, noting the feeling of being "okay" fucks you sideways no matter what. You could be sitting on the couch looking around your cute apartment and realize in your head that, "Damn! How long have I been feeling this okay?!"



I've been South for about a month now. So fucking South that I've succumbed to an idea that's been rattling around in my thinking for several years now....

You know how people with mental illness say over and over and over again that they're not their illness? That their illness doesn't define who they are?

This may be true. May. For me? I know this illness is going to do me in someday. It's just going to. That's not to say that I've become my illness or it's defined me to the point that it's all I think about. What it is saying is that each time I head South where the hair is bad and showers need to happen twice daily, it takes longer and longer to get out. And one day, I will listen and it will be over.

I've been majorly depressed for a month give or take. For one day, I was pulled out and I was like, huh...that wasn't so bad. Then it was all...nope. And it got worse. I feel more horrible today in this pit of depression than I have felt over the last seven years.

It. Is. Very. Bad.

I haven't self-harmed by scratching in about six weeks. My back is covered in dark marks that have softened over. When I reach to touch my skin and find nothing to claw at except for fresh meat, it's an accomplishment, yet a drawback.

I haven't self-harmed by cutting in about three weeks. The marks on my leg are a lush red ready to silver over at any time.

So how am I making it through?

I have no fucking idea.

I cook, I bake, I read, I write, I cry a whole hell of a lot and I drink.

I admitted today that I am dangerously close to needing to go to the hospital.

I've been alone a lot lately. Being alone with myself scares me often. You have no idea what the inner voices say to me and I won't tell on them. Not today.

In a few hours I'll be alone again. I'll drink wine and watch Netflix and keep a sharp object close by to scare the innards away.

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