Monday, February 6, 2012

Breaking Down

You're lying on your bed, sobbing, and you don't quite know why. You just know that you can't stop. You can't breathe. You're trying to calm down, or at least quiet down so your mom doesn't come check on you, but you can't control yourself. You shove your knuckles in your mouth to muffle the sound. You bite down. It hurts, but it feels good. All of a sudden, the things on your bed, the stuffies and the pillows and the blankets, all of them are bothering you. You're desperate to get away from them. They can't touch you. You grab them and throw them across the room with a strangled cry, and then you realize that felt good, too. You hysterically grab everything within your reach and throw it at the wall. It feels good in the moment, but it doesn't help. Nothing helps. Your arm hurts from the dog biting it earlier. You start to scratch at it, first impassively, but it quickly develops into a frenzy. Your hand moves up and down so quickly that it becomes a blur. Your arm rapidly turns red, but you don't care. You want it to bleed. You aren't quite sure why. You expect it'll be satisfying. A small part of you wants whatever's in you that's making you snap to just get out, and that part thinks maybe this is the way. You're making noises that you aren't quite sure how to describe. The tears have slowed, at least, and you're breathing enough to keep from passing out. Your brain's moving so fast that you can't keep up with all of the thoughts. By the time one registers, you're onto the next. You want to die. You want to stop. You want someone to be there with you. You want to go back in time. The thoughts come faster and faster and faster and you can't stop them. You want your mom. You want to be left alone. You want someone to physically stop you. You want the cat to go away. You want to be five years old again. You want to hit somebody. And you keep scratching and scratching. 

And then your mom is calling you from downstairs. You hear your name once, twice, three times. It registers, but you aren't sure what you're supposed to do with that fact. Suddenly, you remember you're supposed to respond. You're supposed to go find her and see what she wants. You get up and walk downstairs. You can tell she's about to yell again, but something in your expression stops her. She asks to see where the dog bit you so she can clean/bandage it. You have no choice but to show her. By now, there are tiny purple dots where you've scratched. She remarks that it looks peculiar for a dog bite, and you tell her that you scratched it. "Oh, it's itching?" "No." She gives you a weird look, but doesn't ask. She washes it off and bandages it. She tells you to go put on long sleeves, and then gives you a hug. You compose yourself on your way upstairs, change, and then go back down. Besides the fact that you can't seem to form a coherent sentence, everything is normal. And you are grateful. 

Song of the Day: "What's Up?" by 4 Non Blondes (Selby keeps singing it to me, and I can't get it out of my head)

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