Welcome To Hell
Previous - this entry written on May 24, 2002 at 2:30 am - Next


It's 2:30 in the morning and I can't fall asleep. I was downstairs for what, an hour or two? Something like that... I wasn't keeping track. I have a functional alarm clock again, but it's plugged in out in the kitchen, next to the computer (I have no idea why I did it that way but I know I had a reason at the time; I suspect it involved a lack of useful outlets in the bedroom).

I have to be back up, or still up, at 8:00 am. Phone calls to make, people to talk to, you know the drill. I'm really not looking forward to it, I tend to dread mornings just on general principles and a morning laden with hold times and snotty secretaries and transfer after transfer only to be put on hold again... *shudders* ...it doesn't bear thinking about.

But I do have to think about it. And not for the normal reasons, either. Not for any good or sane reasons. Remember how I was going through those oxycodone like they were candy, spending whole DAYS pain-free? Yeah, well, now it's biting me on the ass. I'm going to run out a week early. *winces*

Not that it really makes much difference - if I can't get 'em now, I can't get 'em in a week, either.

I took just two pills today. I've been in damned close to misery for all but about six hours of this day, because of that.

And if/when I get the next round of pills, I'm going to keep myself in misery every other day, 3 pills, then 5, then 3, then 5. I am NOT going to let this get out of control again. I am finally starting to scare myself with this.

Let the pain come back. At least it's honest.

I was driving home from my second futile trip to the pharmacy this evening when I had a rather vicious and unpleasant thought, and it is this: Imagine, for a moment, that the world really IS alive, that there really IS some power beyond our own tangled in with our little day-to-day lives. Now imagine that this power, one day, takes notice of someone who has had more than her fair share of luck... someone who is not kind, not gentle, not peaceful and sweet... someone who already looks like Karma is kicking her, so she MUST have done something wrong, right? Perhaps that power decides to get rid of her, as casually as you or I would get rid of a fly, or ant.

Maybe the reason my health and my medical situation continues to get worse instead of better is that Someone decided I don't get to keep going. That I've fucked up enough already. That I don't deserve to live.

*blinks*

Yeah, I know, it's not rational or real or even possible... but it's funny, the sorts of things you can think up when you can barely drive because you're crying so hard from pain and frustration, when all your old instincts kick in, the self-doubt and self-loathing, the distrust, the displeasure, the constant flow of ache and burn and sting and...

*sighs* ...and I wish I hadn't left my security blanket, as it were, at ZooHouse. I didn't mean to; I think it's the first time I have actually FORGOTTEN it anywhere in a damned long time. I wish I had it here right now, though. I need something to cling to, something that gives comfort, because life as it stands isn't giving me anything but heartburn and cramps and a serious self-destructive urge that gets harder and harder to fight as the pain rushes deeper and deeper into me.

It's not just the item itself that I am missing, of course. It's everything it represents to me, both sides of it, everything it has the potential to be. Such an unassuming thing, it seems to be... plain, common, nothing fancy, certainly nothing that would really draw out comment. It's more than that to me, though. It's a whole world that I keep running away from and finding out over and over again that I need it, that running only makes it worse.

I'm missing a lot of people. I'm always missing someone, it seems - I have the bad taste to fall in love with people I can't be around, or can't have, or can't keep, or whatever it takes. Maybe it's just an extention of that self-destructive thingie.

Or maybe it's just me.

I could so easily put what I'm craving into words right now. For once I actually have them. Right here. It's as if a series of gleaming pearls, precious gemstones, half-carved twigs, scraps of leather, and fragments of shattered river rock are all strung together on spiders' webs, sparkling and fading and waiting to be turned into speech.

I won't, though. You see, this is one entry that has some serious potential to come back and haunt me. Everything I hate about myself is on the surface tonight, everything I doubt about my choices is raising up and demanding to be noticed, everything I want is reminding me that I haven't earned it, don't deserve it, that even the worst of the things are still more than I have any right to ask.

THIS is when my guilt kicks in. I had a conversation with someone about asking... the someone said that it was guilt that kept him from asking, in a way. That he felt guilty whenever he asked for anything, as if the mere fact that he couldn't do it, get it, whatever, for himself, meant he didn't deserve it.

I looked a bit confused, maybe a bit scornful. I changed the subject. Wandered off.

Truth is, I know that feeling. I know how deep it can reach.

It makes me wonder sometimes what happened to him that left him so broken. Because he is, you see. I couldn't break him if I tried - he's already there, has been there for goddess only knows how many years. I couldn't hurt him, because the pain he lives with every day is worse than anything I could give.

Do me a favor, oh reader? Hunt down the Degeneration X theme, it's a WWF thing, I think that Rage Against The Machine does it, but I know there are several versions. The right one is about 2:50 minutes. I have that playing right now, not because it's the mood I'm in, gods no. Because it's got a strength that right now, I desperately need to find.

There are words for what I am right now. Frightened. Vulnerable. Open. Empty. Drowning. Hurting. Needing.

There are NOT words for what happens if I loose just a bit too much of my strength. Not words I'm willing to say. Not things I am willing to contemplate. It's the other half of trust, the part where I don't trust, never trust, and at the same time would do anything, obey anything, I wouldn't put it past him (and this is a generic him, keep names out of this bit) to kill me where I stand, or demand I do so, and I know at the same time that I would stand meekly still and watch the knife.

I am very aware that, way back when, the knife wouldn't have been there if somewhere in the mess of it, somewhere in the fear, I knelt and cried and waited for it, certain that it was all there was.

Scott was right - I AM playing with fire, knowingly and willingly - just not quite in the sense he seemed to mean it. I could have interpreted his words wrong, of course. But the flame I'm after is one that's deeper, one that will rip me apart, burn me to ashes, consume this fragile useless meaningless shell and maybe, maybe, let me live afterward.

I don't have any other words for it. Nothing sane and rational - but then, it's not a very sane and rational desire, is it? I told you, and again we're leaving out names this time, this is deeper and not a passing comment, but I told you what it meant to me to see that beauty clasped around someone else's flesh, I told you parts of what it did to me, told you how much I wanted it.

That want, that need?

It's NOTHING. It's a candleflame and I am standing on the lip of a volcano. It's a single note on a toy piano and I am huddled in the center of a maddening, perfectly-tuned orchestra. It's nothing to me right now, even at the strongest points it is nothing to match this driving desperation. Yes, it matters. Mostly, it matters because unlike this, which I keep locked away, it's a constant, always present hunger. It's not an inferno, but a comforting bonfire in a tiny backyard.

I haven't offered you this. I haven't asked you for this. I suspect I've hinted at it - I can't keep it completely locked away - but always, always, couched in such careful terms and harmless phrases and pat little speeches that I rehearse for the times when my desperation shows a bit too clearly, backpedaling and running and hiding from the simple fact of it.

I know what I need, yes... generally, it's not this. Generally, this is the LAST thing I need.

Generally, this isn't even something I fully acknowledge.

Tonight is not 'generally'.

Tonight I have the prospect of weeks of more pain than I can deal with, in a distant place, watching someone I care about suffer because he can't do anything to help. I have the knowledge that unlike my 'hunger', which goes away after a good night's sleep or a quick feeding or even just a good cry, this doesn't. I have the certainty that my dreams tonight won't stay dreams... that when I wake it will be the way it was when I was 19, when I was 12, when I was 7. It will be shadows in the corners of the rooms that I know aren't real but that I can't make disappear. It will be the constant hum of voices that aren't my own, that no one else seems to hear, driving deeper into me with each vicious word until I curl up, crying, begging for someone to beat them out of me.

This is the part of me I don't show.

This is the part of me I don't accept.

Seraphim Shock is now playing, song after song tumbling over each other. It's nearly 3:00 by the computer clock. Half an hour where I've managed to pour myself into typing, rather than into what I know would make this retreat, or better yet, what I know would make it disappear for weeks or months or even years... or what I know would make me disappear.

Dramatic. Stupid. Something like that.

These are the nights when I pray for drugs, for alcohol, for leather, for steel, for anything that holds me down and keeps me from being fully aware of the dark tunnel I am staring down. I would have given anything, some of the nights like this, to have substance to slide down, forcing out fear with chemical blankness. Instead, I found another way to drive it out... to first strengthen it, letting it blossom, forcing it, feeding it... until finally it burns itself out in a flurry of tears and trembling and then sleep, head resting against the same body I cringed from, hands clinging to the same person I would have run from if I could only move, my tears brushed away by the same fingers that made me scream and writhe and curse my own existance.

I can sleep, then. I can rest. The demons gone, the visions ended, a peace that no drug on the planet can ever give me... something that lasts.

I've been taking pill after pill, trying to escape what I saw coming. The pain. The need. The frustration. The emotionless, uncaring, unneeding, unheeding looks.

I know what I need.

I know what I want.

I know that I won't get it.

Tomorrow, or later today, or whatever, I'll be up and on the phone and trying to get at least one small portion of my life to straighten out. The next day, a plane, and the long slow trip to somewhere that I hope will be safety and love and peace.

And then... back here.

Portland is my home. Portland is where I belong. Portland is where I feel I need to be, where I feel as if I fit in, where I am, in my own way, comfortable.

Portland is hell.

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