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Eyes (Written July 3rd)

I sat down this evening to draw, to relax myself after a 6-day week (I put in at least 65 or so hours, so I'm a little worn out) and my mechanical pencil stopped working. I drew exactly 3 lines before it copped out on me. I destroyed my pencil by banging it on the desk (after "fixing" it for 1/2 an hour) and throwing it against the far wall (who knows where it is now). So instead of being any more destructive, I'm going to let it all out in my lj (which isn't nearly as satisfying as drawing, but'll have to do until I buy another pencil).

I rip the skin on my battered elbow to get the pain over with. This constant "Oooh, ow, don't move, ow-ee, maybe if I move my arm this way, OUCH, never mind.... (ad nauseam)" is starting to piss me off. I'm a fast healer. So why is my arm almost as bad as it was on Monday? It still oozes and yesterday it stuck to the replacement bandage Soma-sensei put on it for me (she didn't put any neosporin or anything like that on it, unfortunately), so it started bleeding when I pulled it off. Pain doesn't hurt; it pisses me off. Sometimes I feel like if I crack open my wound, it'll teach it a lesson. "Oh, smackdown! Who's hurting now?!"

The Hotei song "Shock Treatment" just came on. I needed that more than I knew. "It's crazy! It's crazy!"

I wish Satan would cum on someone else's face for once. My own is brow-high in its own shit, thank you so much.

When I got that $1500 phone bill on Tuesday, I had this amazingly overwhelming urge to destroy myself in very particular ways. I haven't internalized my own anger in that way since I was about 17 years old. (Okay, so I beat the shit out of myself in November, but it was letting out frustration; I wasn't on auto self-destruct.) I ripped off all my clothes and lay on my nasty-ass floor and all I could see was me pulling out my own intestines. I saw it again and again. I was pulling the knife across my belly and throwing my intestines out on the disgusting carpet. I could see it. That was all I could see. I couldn't see the room, I couldn't see the bill, I couldn't see anything but my own destruction. Then I wanted to thrust a large stitching needle into my left eye. I would jab it in, pull it out, the eye would heal, and I would start again. I wanted to destroy my eyes.

I prize my eyes almost as much as I prize my hands--who is this mad girl wriggling under my facade? I look a little older, but in some ways, I don't feel older than 16. I'm fatter (actually, I thought I was fixing that, but recently it's come to my attention that I've been fooling myself for the past few weeks) than I was, I take less shit now than I used to, I care less about things. I don't get excited over a new CD, I never finished reading the last installment of Last Order (and yet I waited on pins and needles for 2 years for the continuation--?!), I can't take advantage of living in Japan because my life circles around work and recovering from work. ::insert scream::

I tried to rationalize hurting myself in some way. I argued with myself that cutting would be okay, although that doesn't seem as sweet to me as it once did. Just thinking about it used to make things better, and actually doing it opened windows in my head. It let me transcend both the animal and the human in me, and it let me go out beyond the barrier of my skull. It let me pass beyond my eyes. My sad, grey eyes. I have my father's eyes: sad and knowing.

I decided on cutting (haven't done that in about 7 years--can you believe that?), but couldn't do my arm (although part of me argued that since I was all battered from the bike crash, maybe I could cut myself a little and everybody would think it was from the accident--I realized that everybody has already looked me over from head to toe, to see what damage the wreck had wreaked ::small smile::, and would probably noticed big gaping gashes in my right arm). I thought about cutting other parts of my body, but they just aren't appealing to me. It's my arm or nothing.

So I settled on doing what I did last November: I screamed and called myself a bitch (among other things) and beat the shit out of myself. I had this incredible urge to bash my forehead against the stucco railing on my porch, but I figured I had to leave my face alone (for work's sake). I figured nobody'd noticed more bruises; besides, most of the ones from the crash hadn't surfaced yet. My knee just turned black yesterday (and, no, I didn't touch it on Tuesday). By Thursday, small green bruises started blooming all over my skin. On my thighs, all down my left side. The ones on my side are from the accident (I landed that way, but the ones on my thighs and belly are questionable). Couldn't sleep on my left Monday or Tuesday night 'cuz of the bruising. The area around my left kidney has been bothering me since the crash, but it let up today, so maybe things are all better now. It kinda worried me, though, since it hurt at random times (when I would sit up suddenly or bend over) and it wasn't on the surface (I prodded the skin to be sure).

I was also a little concerned since I had two really bad dizzy spells, one on Monday and another on Tuesday. They wouldn't let up for a good 5 minutes or so, which was a bad sign. So, there's the possibility that I have cerebral hemorrhaging and don't know it. To be honest, I think my sugar was low, that's all. But that they would last that long and make me nauseated and ready to pass out was weird. They half-reminded me of the hour or so before I had my seizure, so I was a little worried about my heart. On schedule, it freaked out a little on Tuesday and again on Wednesday, but no sign of a seizure any time soon.

A black cat crossed my path after the accident. I thought it was some sort of joke: why would the cat cross my path after the worst had passed? I would laugh about it now--now that I know that the worst had just begun--but it isn't funny. Not even the "laughs at anything Abby" squashed down at the bottom of my self is laughing. If my other demons keep squirming around like they are now, she might get smothered soon. I think if that was the first time a black cat had crossed my path here, it would have been a big deal, but it was #3. No joke. Six weeks ago--did I write about this already?--a medium-sized black cat crossed my path as I was biking home. Two weeks later, a different cat (large, long-haired) crossed my path as I biked home. On Monday, Tsu was driving me back to my apartment (with the damaged bike in the back) so I could pick up my bike insurance forms and stuff (good thing I bought that insurance), when a juvenile black cat crossed in front of the car. It was far enough ahead (and we were going pretty slowly) so there was no chance of it getting hurt. It just meandered across the street and looked back at me as we drove on by.

My only consolation in this is that Tsu was in the car with me, so maybe he's cursed, too (we can only hope).

I do have to say, though, that it was really nice of him to haul me and my bike to the store where I bought it and wait while they fixed it and haul it back to school. (Okay, I wanted to bike to ACTA from there and buy more bandages for my arm and get the shampoo and conditioner that I was going to buy that day--well, that was my plan before the accident--but he insisted on driving me back--self-righteous as he is--he just can't let a good thing be all good, can he?) Still, it was nice of him. And I learned something. He likes Christmas music more than any other kind of music. He listens to it in the middle of summer, because, as he put it, it makes him nostalgic for America and the time he spent there [forever ago]. He listens to Bing Crosby (the best in Xmas music, if I do say so m'self) in the broiling heat. In that moment, hearing him talk so enthusiastically about Xmas music when it's blazing outside, I realized that there is a very, very sad man sitting next to me. Yeah, it's pathetic, but it's pathetic in the traditional sense of the word, too. What a sad man. He listens to Xmas music to escape everything around him. I guess we all do that in some way or other, but his way of doing it seemed much sadder than normal.

This seems the right time for another Maugham quote.

From page 614:

It seemed to Philip that the religion which his uncle had preached all his life was now of no more than formal importance to him: every Sunday the curate came and administered to him Holy Communion, and he often read his Bible; but it was clear that he looked upon death with horror. He believed that it was the gateway to life everlasting, but he did not want to enter upon that life. In constant pain, chained to his chair and having given up the hope of ever getting out in to the open again, like a child in the hands of a woman to whom he paid wages, he clung to the world he knew.

In Philip's head was a question he could not ask, because he was aware that his uncle would never give any but a conventional answer: he wondered whether at the very end, now that the machine was painfully wearing itself out, the clergyman still believed in immortality; perhaps at the bottom of his soul, not allowed to shape itself into words in case it became urgent, was the conviction that there was no God and after this life nothing.


( 2 comments — Leave a comment )
Jul. 5th, 2004 09:44 am (UTC)
I don't feel like myself anymore. I used to get excited about books and music. Fun made me feel more alive than it does now. Work is just what I do and not a source of pride. I care about stupid shit like wearing clothes that match and having a clean kitchen. I'm numb all the time. When I try to wear the fun old things that used to make me happy, they just make me feel conspicuous and stupid. I've thought about doing the things I used to do to my feet, but even that seems stupid to me now. I desperately want to feel.

Are we having some of the same problems?
Jul. 6th, 2004 06:53 pm (UTC)
Sorry to take so long to respond.

Yeah, it sounds like we're going through the same sort of thing. I know what you mean about feeling numb all the time. I should be excited to be living here, to be doing the things I'm doing and living the life I'm living, but I'm not. I could come home to a mailbox full of love letters and still not be excited.

Hopefully this is just a phase we'll grow out of.

( 2 comments — Leave a comment )

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