Because my brain is fried, and Im to tired to write up something that would actually make sense, I will post this. Something I wrote the other day, but never posted. Well…I did, but I took it down. It makes sense to me, I lived it, I wrote it. But at times, there are things that I write that not even I understand. With my messed up grammar and spelling, I wonder if anyone even understands 1/2 of what I write. But oh well. My life. My shit. For me to understand.
The faster this month comes to a close, the faster next month comes in to full view, and while the speed of things should be somewhat encouraging to me, its really…been rather hard. Sure, Ive had a decent amount of work, both AT work, and home, to keep my mind occupied a majority of the time. Yea, Ive had enough to keep me busy, and Ive been distracted this past week with issues both at work, and home, but still…there comes a time when I sit down, and all my thoughts sit down beside me, and I reach my breaking point. Which is where I am now. Again.
Last night, my mom spied some of the scars I have on my arms from things of the past. She asked me where I had gotten them from, and with out thinking I blurted out the all to familiar story. The story that I assume most people are content enough with, because most times, its left at that. I blurted out that it was the car wreck a few years ago, or maybe it was…I dont remember…huh, whered that one come from. I turned back to what I was doing, but she grabbed my arm, and stared at me. “David, where did those come from” She shot a look to my arm then back at me. I stared for a few seconds. My heart started racing. I knew where they came from, I knew the day I got that one. I remember DOING that. I remember what it was over, and every small fucking detail that is stitched into that scar. My eyes dropped to the floor, and I jerked my arm back, pulling my sleeve down over them.
She left the room, I pushed back from the pile of things I was sorting and leaned on the wall. It was the day after Emmy’s funeral. The day my younger sister died. The day I was alone in the house, and reality sunk in. Standing there in the bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror, swearing, wondering how I had let things get so out of control, how things had suddenly went so far down, and now…I was sitting on rocks. “Rock bottom” I had muttered to myself. “ROCK BOTTOM” I yelled it. No one was there, no one could hear. Standing there, staring into the mirror, I suddenly got a sense of overwhelming numbness.
My mind went blank. I no longer had any idea who I was. No longer had any idea what I was here for, or really, even why. It didnt take me long to get back into the habit of it. It was a simple way to “wake up” to acknowledge that I was still alive, even when I didnt want to be, and finally, it was a way to redirect the pain, in a way that I could deal with. It was a way to manipulate myself, self torture, giving myself what I deserved.
It surprises me to this day that I didnt wind up in the psycho ward because really, at times I was heading there. At the time, I had two roommates, who, both were oblivious to what I was up to. It wasnt until one day, after drinking all night, did I swagger into the police station, telling them I had a murder to confess to. After blurting out in less than 5 minutes that I killed my daughter by signing her over to have surgery and so forth. They sent me to the hospital, who wrote a prescription out, and sent me on my way.
I spent months switching from drinking to that. My way of “coping” I told myself. While a few people knew I drank on occasion, I dont think they realized just how far, or how much it was, and as far as Im sure, no one knew of this. Not even my sister, because I can guarantee you, she wouldnt have listed me to take care of her kids, had she known. It still, amazes me that I didnt get put in the psycho ward, or jail or something that day. It amazes me that all they did was give me a slip of paper. A paper that meant nothing more to me than a slip with a long word on it. I threw it away in their garbage can, on my way out the door. Looking at that scar I can still remember it. Remember it all. The pain, the numbness, confusion, hot raging anger, the guilt. Its all right there, all still clear as if something that happened three years ago, happened yesterday.
Yet, what worries me, is the scars I cant see. The scars I left on other people. The scars I left from drinking, the scars I left from being careless. While I gave that up, I took drinking to a different level, I promised friends that found out that I was done with that, and I was…It wasnt until this year, that I finally have come true with that promise. Leaning against the wall, it all flooded back to me…things havent changed, circumstances are still the same. The world still goes around, and people still continue to walk in aimless circles. Life still goes on…..even when I dont want to go with it.
Just my hot rant of the day.