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Nov. 15th, 2005 05:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
deliriumcrowIt's been a bad month. I think, maybe, it comes down to the fact that times really are hard for dreamers....
I don't know what it is. It's a depresion that came out of pretty much nowhere. Ok, that's not completely true, it's always there, under all the smiles and laughing and trying to look like a normal person. But I"m not. People are willing to talk to me at times like that, but I can't sustain it, as the paint wears off of the masks and all is left with the natural ruin meneath. Or unnatural. i don't actually know anymore. Point is, This is what I seem to have become and I hate it.
I like touch. It's my favourite of the senses, and the only one I can't live without. The rest I can hold as memory, call up the music, hell, I can feel music. if I touch something, I can feel how it vibrates, and that makes a sound, at least for me. Smell, well, I can ive without it. Even taste, seeing as i don't' much like eating anymore. Still. Something. sight, well, mine's fucked anyway. As for reading, there's braille, and for that -- touch. So.
But I can't deal with it. I can sort of force myselef to hug, sometimes, though I don't really like it anymore. Which is not entirely true, except for when it is. Comforting gestures, kindnesses, attempts to get my attention, bumping hands at table, these ... no.
I want to say that part of it is that I"m not happy in my skin, but that's not completely true. Whie the face I see in the mirror is someone else's, I've sort of gotten used to that shock. Though I am not happy with my body, with the way it moves, the lack of grace, the extra weight and muscles, various other complaints and isues, it's mine, and I don't hate it so much anymore, or even resent it all that much. I live here, I might as well make the best of it -- sort of like an apartment in a low-rent district, I guess, it's always what you make of it. my room on Beekman St was barely bigger than Kat and Gabe's closet and rotting from the inside out and probably should have been condemned, but I made of it a home. I've done that in this sack of slowly decaying flesh and fragile twig-bones.
Perhaps more specifically, it's the skin itself, and the way it carries memory on it like a written record, if only to my own eyes. I was talking to a friend (far enough away that I don't have to worry about touch in any context) and said it was like scars, that every touch is a burn that I still feel. Layers and layers built up of hands and lips and bodies' press, layers of scar and memory that can never be erased. And not all of it -- most of it actually -- is good. Forced, whether by them or by myself, degredation of rape, including how I more or less raped myself. Accepting offers I didn't want out of some sonse of --worthlessness? hopelessness? that all I was good for was satisfying a few needs, so I might as well. And I dind't even get paid for it. A whore so cheap you don't even have to pay.... It's not that I hate my body, it's that I hate the resident. I don't know how to remove those wounds, some of them aren't even so old as to be fuly healed. Thing is, I can still see them. Like a fire. And there's not enough water and sand in the world to scrub them off.
It had been, after Remy, that there were enough people around that I could still be used to the idea of touch, but it's been months now since I've let anyone get near me, and I don't quite remember how. Avery tried to be comforting and I swear it was burning. I jumped. It physically hurt.
This has to go away soon. No really, it does. It has to be fixed in a week. There are reasons for this.
And sometimes, I really do wish I were dead. Not that I'd ever do anything about it; it's just a wish. Because then there would at least be an explanation for the magic fleeing my body.
Or maybe he's right, and I've truly unmade myself, disbelieved myself out of existence.
I don't know what it is. It's a depresion that came out of pretty much nowhere. Ok, that's not completely true, it's always there, under all the smiles and laughing and trying to look like a normal person. But I"m not. People are willing to talk to me at times like that, but I can't sustain it, as the paint wears off of the masks and all is left with the natural ruin meneath. Or unnatural. i don't actually know anymore. Point is, This is what I seem to have become and I hate it.
I like touch. It's my favourite of the senses, and the only one I can't live without. The rest I can hold as memory, call up the music, hell, I can feel music. if I touch something, I can feel how it vibrates, and that makes a sound, at least for me. Smell, well, I can ive without it. Even taste, seeing as i don't' much like eating anymore. Still. Something. sight, well, mine's fucked anyway. As for reading, there's braille, and for that -- touch. So.
But I can't deal with it. I can sort of force myselef to hug, sometimes, though I don't really like it anymore. Which is not entirely true, except for when it is. Comforting gestures, kindnesses, attempts to get my attention, bumping hands at table, these ... no.
I want to say that part of it is that I"m not happy in my skin, but that's not completely true. Whie the face I see in the mirror is someone else's, I've sort of gotten used to that shock. Though I am not happy with my body, with the way it moves, the lack of grace, the extra weight and muscles, various other complaints and isues, it's mine, and I don't hate it so much anymore, or even resent it all that much. I live here, I might as well make the best of it -- sort of like an apartment in a low-rent district, I guess, it's always what you make of it. my room on Beekman St was barely bigger than Kat and Gabe's closet and rotting from the inside out and probably should have been condemned, but I made of it a home. I've done that in this sack of slowly decaying flesh and fragile twig-bones.
Perhaps more specifically, it's the skin itself, and the way it carries memory on it like a written record, if only to my own eyes. I was talking to a friend (far enough away that I don't have to worry about touch in any context) and said it was like scars, that every touch is a burn that I still feel. Layers and layers built up of hands and lips and bodies' press, layers of scar and memory that can never be erased. And not all of it -- most of it actually -- is good. Forced, whether by them or by myself, degredation of rape, including how I more or less raped myself. Accepting offers I didn't want out of some sonse of --worthlessness? hopelessness? that all I was good for was satisfying a few needs, so I might as well. And I dind't even get paid for it. A whore so cheap you don't even have to pay.... It's not that I hate my body, it's that I hate the resident. I don't know how to remove those wounds, some of them aren't even so old as to be fuly healed. Thing is, I can still see them. Like a fire. And there's not enough water and sand in the world to scrub them off.
It had been, after Remy, that there were enough people around that I could still be used to the idea of touch, but it's been months now since I've let anyone get near me, and I don't quite remember how. Avery tried to be comforting and I swear it was burning. I jumped. It physically hurt.
This has to go away soon. No really, it does. It has to be fixed in a week. There are reasons for this.
And sometimes, I really do wish I were dead. Not that I'd ever do anything about it; it's just a wish. Because then there would at least be an explanation for the magic fleeing my body.
Or maybe he's right, and I've truly unmade myself, disbelieved myself out of existence.
