Tuesday, January 15, 2019

The wall

Panic began to set it with every turn. The hallway she was in seemed to grow longer. Had she already been through this one? The blood spatter pattern seemed familiar. Or was it all just beginning to look the same? Was it just one endless room, where every turn just brought her back to where she started

Her brown hair, matted, sweat pouring from her pores was an endless steady stream that was mixing with her tears. She swiped at her mouth hoping to wipe away the saliva that sprayed out every time she yelled. It should have seemed like an effortless gesture, but her arm was heavy and missed.

How did she get here in the first place, she couldn't remember. Her head began to spin, confusion, fear and panic overloading her system. She had to find a way out. She needed to sit, compose herself. There was that familiar pattern on the wall, the one she was sure she kept passing. She attempted to wipe her brow, missing once again all the while being unable to look away from that spot on the wall.

That spot... She cocked her head to side, the faintest of memory coming to the forefront.

"Abby... RUN!" The woman beside her yelled, blonde hair stuck to the side of her face blood running down her arms and onto her hands. Behind them were two figures dressed in what could only be described as hazmat suits, but to the little girl these towering figures that stalked slowly behind them were stuff of nightmares. The blonde woman began to run now, attempting to grab Abby's hand, slick with blood, she couldn't grasp it. 

"Subject 201 attained," it was one of the figures, a man's monotone voice stated. Abby flailed her arms, attempted to kick this man so she could be free. She tried to scream for the woman, her mouth moving but no sound came out. The other figure ran past  the man holding Abby, arms out stretched to grab the woman. 

There was more blood now, it was running down her legs and Abby could see blood on the woman's feet. The woman tried to turn the corner, she didn't know where the woman was running but thought there must be a way out somewhere. The blood, there was just too much. The woman slipped, slamming her head into the wall....



***Unfinished--but I think something sparked for me. maybe?***

Saturday, January 12, 2019

"Can you remember who were before the world told you who you should to be?" - Bukowski

"Can you remember who you were?"
"No" she said, "I remember who I wanted to be."

Sitting there she didn't realize how much she lost herself in the previous years. She knew she lost her smile, her laugh...but she didn't know she lost herself entirely.

"Who did you want to be?"
"Someone."
"Someone? So you're saying you're no one?"
"I'm saying I'm someone else, entirely." She looked out the window, the sky was bruised but it didn't cry. She stopped crying long ago. But the bruises scarred her soul.

"Then who are you now?"
"I'm dead"
"Dead? I thought you were someone else?"
"I am someone else, I am dead. I am both and I am nothing at the same time. I'm a shell. A shadow of who I once was."

She tried to think of a time when happiness was an emotion that was always felt, not forced. She couldn't  think of one. She knew she had come a long way, she knew she didn't want to be dead. Not physically, not anymore. She could see a ray of light shining through the thick clouds and smiled. 

"The dead don't smile."
"No," she said, "the dead don't smile."
"Do you still think you're dead?"
"I know I'm not dead. But who I was, is. There is no going back to who I was, if I did, I'd be who everyone says I should be. I am this version of me. Better in some ways, worse in others. But I am the me I am supposed to be."


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I haven't opened this blog in quite sometime, it's pretty cool to see that (even though there isn't much) I have still been getting views. So thank you to those of you visiting.

Anyhow, this is my attempt to get back into writing, may not necessarily pertain to my original idea of the blog (sometimes it will) this one is a vague view into me. You're welcome to follow my new writing adventure and wherever these 10-15 minute writing sesisons may lead. 🙂

Thursday, June 1, 2017

Scratches, cuts and scars

I don't have many memories from when I was a kid, I've forced myself to repress many memories, now my brain just forgets things as soon as they happen. It's ironic though, my sister used to make fun of me for always saying things like "do you remember when I was (so young) and I/you/we...." I think it was around the time when I first left my house that I started to repress them. I remember bits and pieces only because of notes that I have saved, either that I wrote or were addressed to me.
I wrote in one of my middle school planners "Eddy special, special Eddy". Eddy referring to me. There was an entire story in there from cover to cover about how Eddy was going to die. It wasn't very detailed as I was trying to portray a person who required special education. 

Eddy special, special Eddy.
Eddy's going to die.
Eddy likes blood.
Eddy's own blood.
Eddy likes to cut.
Eddy's arms and fingers.
Eddy's going to die.

Of course, it was a lot longer than that but I'm not sure of the rest or where that planner ended up. It was this  year that I learned if you cut yourself in a certain way your blood would drain out pretty quickly. It didn't start so bad. And I knew that if I did get caught with cuts my mom wouldn't actually notice, not because she didn't pay attention to me, but because I had a tendency to get injured. A LOT!! I'm extremely clumsy. Like the other day, I was lying down on some pillows on the floor, fell and got hurt. Don't ask. I seriously do not know how something that silly happens. Any way, I digress. 
I would scratch at my fingers until I felt the skin go raw, I would watch as pieces of skin would slowly come off and it was start to burn. I would stop then right before it bled and lick it, not for the taste, but for the burning sensation it caused, I enjoyed the pain. Other people hate it, like finding out you have a paper cut only after getting it wet. Once the burn stopped I would continue scratching. crying the entire time. The pain was worse at this point and finally it would bleed. A sigh of relief would escape. But it only lasted so long before I came back to reality, knowing I would have to do it again soon
One time, I had too many cuts and scars on my fingers and my mom noticed. I think she knew what was going on. She asked me how they happened crying all the while. I don't know if I was glad that she found out or glad that she was hurting like I was. I knew at that point I had to stop making it visible, not because she knew, but because I knew that me saying "I was itchy and scratched with an eraser just too hard" wasn't believable... I was friends with a group of friends that were into the Punk scene and I dressed like them. I wore sweaters and hoodies all the time and wrist bands like the ones you would wear to the gym, only they were black with some design sewn on. One had a Superman sign, another of Butthead from "Beavis and Butthead". I had those even before I started scratching. But I figured this was how I would get away with cutting my wrists.

When I was a kid, my mom took me to the doctor to find out if I had ADHD; turns out I was borderline. Which the doctors said usually goes away in time. It hadn't gone yet when I was in middle school. I would talk nonstop, the teachers were constantly moving me. I even had one teacher, my art teacher, who threatened to duct tape my mouth shut. Every time I would start talking too much he would get up and put a roll on my desk, If I still wouldn't be quiet, he would pull the end until I WOULD shut up. Most of my teachers wouldn't so much as let me go to the bathroom because I would stay out too long talking with people. I talked too much, too fast and was always laughing, that kids would ask me if I was doing speed; but nope, I was just happy. My friends of course knew that I was just super hyper , I didn't need need sugar or caffeine but I looooved Pixie Stix, so much so that I would sometimes snort them. Eventually though, I stopped talking and being happy. And as time went on, gift giving holidays became hell to me, even my birthday. A day that is supposed to be only about me, was (still is) the worst.
I remember my birthday that year, I was at school. Chester came up behind me and put his hands in my pocket and was just walking with me. I turned around to kiss him and he gave me a few Pixie Stix, I thought it was really weird. Just a few for my birthday? "Look in your pocket." He had told me, he had put an entire bag of them in there and I didn't even notice!! Unfortunately, when I took my hands out of the hoodie's pocket my wrist band had folded a bit. The cuts there were somewhat fresh. He barely saw them I pulled it back down so fast. So he didn't have time to see that it read Kill Me. (There are still a few scars from that.) I was able to convince him I would stop. Serj was a different story.
He was standing near me and saw. I have no idea what he had said to me, but he called me that night and told me how everyone loved me and he was there if I needed and all the like. I knew he meant well and I could count on him. But I didn't know what he would do if I kept doing it when I told him I would stop. I did stop, I stopped cutting my arms at least. I stopped wearing sweaters and wrist bands (so he could see I didn't lie). I also stopped wearing shorts and started wearing pants. Nobody would have suspected only because winter was coming. But I started cutting my ankles, feet and thighs. This is the first time I have ever told any body that. Just so you know, I wear nothing but sleeveless dresses and sandals. In case you were wondering how I am now. :)

**Is short story or diary format more appealing?**

Thursday, May 25, 2017

Let's Try This Again....

My name is Clarissa, I have depression, anxiety, the occasional panic attack, migraines/chronic headaches and even though I have attempted to commit suicide around, ohhh.... 4 times (twice were quite recently) but there's nothing wrong with me; or so I'd like to think.
I started this blog many, many, MANY years ago. I had a healthy number of readers. But as anxiety crept in, I got scared and just as quickly as I started...I stopped. But fear or not, let's try this again.
Here is the story of the first time I realized, even though there's nothing wrong with me, I still needed a little help.

Thanksgiving night, 2010. Driving up the five freeway, no one on the road but me. The grapevines are coming up; desolate, dry and dead even at eleven o'clock at night it is easy to tell. They look how I feel: bitter and uncared for. Heater on high but the burn coming from the vents are unable to warm my face that have a cool, steady stream of tears running down them. The radio is turned all the way up and yet, pulling over, it sounds like nothing but the quiet hum you sometimes hear before falling asleep. Sleep will come soon, something that's been unfelt for months. Sleep, when it does come will still not shake me from this living nightmare. Not yet at least.
 I don't remember driving to where I ended up, somewhere up the five freeway on some empty, unmarked road that goes up the mountains with no signs of life anywhere. All I know is that I was headed to Washington State; with nothing but the clothes on my back, the three hundred dollars in my bank account and a full tank of gas. My first thought was to throw my phone in the first river I saw so people I know would have no way to contact me. Had I done that I would never have received the text message that made me turn around.
 "I'm spending Thanksgiving alone" said one of my new friends, James. I sat in my car on that empty road, weighing my options. Remembering how he came to spend Thanksgiving alone; I didn't want the same story he had. Choosing to spend it by yourself, so I turned around. I didn't choose this for myself; I sort of fell into it by isolating myself from my fiancé, family, friends and the rest of the world. Only I had done it as way to deal, or should I say lack of dealing with my father’s death that had happened nine months earlier.
 My mom had left town at the beginning of the month to allow me time to "find myself". I had gone hog wild; drinking and partying, often times not even coming home at all. So who was I to blame her for giving me a sense of abandonment? She still wasn't home the morning of Thanksgiving and my sister had no obligation, and probably didn't want to invite me to her family dinner. Of course, with my luck she came home that afternoon, which was the cause of my leaving, not her presence, but that oh-so wonderful stare parents' tend to give when they think you've done something wrong. But like I said I returned from this lonesome drive, not to that look, but something worse, much worse. A note.
 I can't remember now what the note said, but I can recall that I was kicked out. I spent the next hour or so packing and crying on the phone to one of my friends, who I realize now didn't even actually care what had happened, she just kept egging me on to raise more conflict with my mother. I hung up then, sat on my bed and looked at all the wonderful things I had. Gifts and memories of my previous life when I used to be happy and had people who had actually cared about me. I couldn't pack any more. I knew that I just wanted to forget who I was and what I'd become.
 I cried myself to sleep that night, but sleep didn't last long, this time. I packed my books and clothes into the car the next morning. I was going to look for a room to rent, drop out of school and become a stripper. A heck of a plan, I realize now I had set such high standards for myself. I didn't have it in me to look hard that day, I had been emotionally drained from the day before, and so I went back to this place called home. My mom was gone, again. A new plan then came to mind; I began researching what effects my prescription pills would have, not that I knew what any of them were for, but I came to learn that none of them said death. What didn't cross my mind at that time is what sort of interactions these medications would have with each other. So I took them, just over two hundred; it didn't take me long to realize that I had screwed up.
 At that moment I received a text from yet another friend, Jonah telling me about his night. One that involved drugs, sex and alcohol; the only thing I responded was "I fucked up." I had hoped at that time to have him take me to the emergency room but a wave of panic swept over, sweltering heat taking over me from head to toe. So I lay myself down to try to regain control. That was the last thing that happened. I lost control. I lost control of my mind and eventually my body; I fell asleep.
  Sleep. That may have been what I wanted, but I had overdosed and was in a coma. I woke up a week later to my mom, my sister and my true best friend, the one who never left my bedside. When I turned on my phone not one person seemed to have been worried about me. Not one of them noticed I was gone. Because, I realize now, I didn't these people I had come to call friends...

Actually, I lie, I do need them. Not because they were good company, technically they were good company [we had some wild nights ;)], but I needed them to learn from the mistakes I had made.

**question for you**Would you rather read more posts in short story format or more of a "diary" read?

The wall

Panic began to set it with every turn. The hallway she was in seemed to grow longer. Had she already been through this one? The blood spatte...