so various, so new

tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13680868.post-1136292136546363562006-01-03T05:50:00.000-05:002006-01-03T07:42:16.570-05:00so various, so newLines of a barely breathing poem like a fetus flushed out of my mal-formed brain. I want to get a brain scan, want to look at a picture of my brain, get out a magnifying glass and a ruler. I want to get it out and show it to other people, say, this is why I'm like this. Look. You see it, don't you? I know I would come off like some schizophrenic, desperately begging them to look, look, LOOK! And I see already the look on their faces. Vague worry. Closed off. Even though the differences would be there. I have the diagnosis. I just don't want to say it. Bipolar. There. Imagine my face, spitting it forth for people, them not even knowing what it is when I do. My father. Months after this. Coming out that he doesn't even know what it is. How shocked I was. Okay, I can handle you never knowing or trying to know what classes I'm taking in school. But this isn't the same. Please don't make it that way. He insulates himself from caring. Only moves his hand, petting my fur, saying I love you, you know, but I don't know because love isn't something you feel, it's something you do. My freedom, finding this out after years, this sentiment, was of beauty... I want to write, and write, and write, till my hands cramp up. I'll have to brush my teeth with my feet. I can do it. I'm flexible. Just let me write, please, God...I want to. It's me. I know it is. I want to say it means something meaningfully meaningful. I don't think it does. Or else it just means I'm terrified of feeling something. I went through this phase, right after and during rehab, where I was so open... I could tell new coworkers about how wonderful AA was. I could cry at meetings without needing to cover my face with a tissue. I could read my cousin that I rarely see the Twelve Steps. I didn't even realize until my friend at work told me that everyone was gossiping about me behind my back. Sometimes I feel so painfully new to this world. Like I'm walking around with my skin rubbed off, just bleeding all over everything, and cut to razors by the very air. I don't think I have ever felt that I was worth anything, and believe it or not that is HARD for me to say. Cause people don't want to hear it. More than anything else, people do not want to hear that. I don't know why. Well, maybe I do. I know because of Nadia. I knew she desperately needed help to be a worthwhile friend, and that I could never give her that help. That forever would not be long enough to make her bearable. Once at an aftercare meeting, I said that I wasn't sure whether I was a total egotist or whether I just hated myself. Because I wanted to be perfect at hating myself, and that was egotistical, right? But at the same time, hateful, because I could never hate myself enough to be perfect. And I can't stop hating myself until I'm perfect. Which is really hateful because it's never going to happen. But if you think about that, it really is the perfect way to hate one's self. I could go on. But I may cry. And no one's going to lend me their shoulder without giving me that look of vague worry that makes me want to claw their eyes out. I want to say to Nadia when I run into her again (inevitably) that she has no idea how happy it makes me that she's going to die miserable and alone. But I'm afraid if I'm the kind of person who would say that, then I'm the kind of person that would end up that way, too. And the other thing I want to do is just jump her and start beating the shit out of her. That's worse. Those ideas have faded over time, but they're still there. I always figured the biggest difference between Nadia and me was that I'm capable of change and she's not. For the short term, I need to stop rolling the tendons in my neck so hard and often that the nerves in the left side of my neck tingle. I'm paranoid I'm going to pop a major blood vessel.irahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08126052534311148133noreply@blogger.com