It's very easy to see just by looking at me, who the people are that I live my life for and who I used to live my life for. If you look close enough, you'll see the physical signs and symbols and if you ask the right questions, nothing will remain a mystery about me. It's so obvious to see what drives and has driven me in the past. It's so simple to identify where my heart has been invested and where it continues to dwell. I'm an open book really, if you ignore the fake lock that pretends to bind me,like a pretentious child's diary.
There's a girl around my neck. She's my sister and she's made of gold. I always have her with me because I've never met her. It was through her death that I was given the opportunity for life and thus to her I feel indebted, guilty almost, because I know things would have been so very different had she lived - had life been fair. I think about her every day and I wonder what it was that caused God to take her away and leave me here instead. I call her my guardian angel because it only makes sense to do so - I'm sure she's saved me more times than I am even aware of. I live for her because it wasn't in God's design for her to do so herself. It may be somewhat strange to say this of a five week old baby, but she's my role model. In the five weeks that she was on this earth, she touched and changed more people than I probably have in my 19 years of life. She has taught me that love knows not the bounds of mortality but rather it transcends all that which is strictly human and all that is bound within time. I didn't even need to know her or meet her yet she is one of the closest people to my heart.
There is a boy on my wrist. He didn't ask to be there... rather I crossed a psychotic line of sorts and drew his name in blood on the parchment that was my flesh. It has proven to be one of the stupidest things I have ever done. However, I do not regret having done it. I look down at the fading scars and I still see the blood mixed with my own tears as my mind reeled from the pure torment that raged within my head. I had told him that I couldn't love properly - this was at a time where I was seemingly devoid of all feeling. Everything felt fake, posed and enveloped in numbness - I could not have lied to him at the time by saying that I truly loved him because I really didn't know if I did. He tried to make me see that there was love within our friendship even though I was stubborn in not just immediately believing him. He did everything that a good friend ought to have done in that situation... And then later that night, my twisted mind went on some psychotic rampage in an attempt to prove to myself that I did in fact love him as well as every other friend of mine. So now I have his name on my wrist with nothing much more to show for it except a lost friendship and an awkward question to answer when people happen to look closely enough to see the scars. It seems as though his name on my wrist did the exact opposite of cementing the love between friends but rather it set me up for the downward spiral that would become my life in the following year. I created a world of hurt for myself that proved to be completely stupid, immature and unnecessary. I can apologise a million times to him and to those close to him for the drama I brought about but it won't take back what it did to him, to our friendship, to me. I can't go back in time and change the course that ensued after one misguided action. I can only look back now and be thankful for the lesson it has afforded me - as hard as it has been.
I have a number of old friends etched into my skin - fading memories of all who I've pushed away and all those who simply ran from my idiocy and borderline psychotics. I've often gone too far... I've pushed too much, done little good and manipulated people far too explicitly. I can sit hear and say these things about myself for days on end because I know of all my mistakes and all of the horrible things I've done to people who have done nothing but expect normality from me. In essence, I look back on what my life has been comprised of for the past few years and I cringe at the desperation that it reeks of. I don't know who that miserable, complicated, twisted little girl was. I don't want to remember myself as the monster I once was... even though it probably still lurks within me, waiting to pull me back into an infinite regress of depression and self-inflicted suffering. I don't want to be that way ever again. I don't want to live my life on the edge if it means at any moment I could look over the railing of a balcony as I once did and decide it would be a good way to die. I don't want to ever look at a bottle of painkillers and mentally calculate the amount needed to overdose. I don't to cause my friends to worry about me to the extent that they feel the need to stage mini-interventions and check my wrists every so often for fresh scars. I don't ever want to be that selfish ever again.
Perhaps I'm schizophrenic and the voices in my head have become somewhat restless. Maybe that's what it is that pulls me back into myself. Maybe that's what I can credit my moments of pure insanity to. It would make so much more sense to me if I were to be diagnosed with some mental illness. I suppose it would make so much more sense to the people around me as well - it would explain so much and, I'm sure, confirm some of their suspicions. Also, then some psychiatrist could give me a concoction of pills that would make me better. So that none of the people who I have come to love, cherish and adore would ever have to be subjected to the overflow of my warped mind. It would be a guarantee that I would no longer hurt or annoy anyone. Would being classed as insane not just make everything that much easier? Or do I have to further grapple with the task of balancing the expectation of normality or conformity with the nature of my not-so-normal mind?
--J.
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