Describe myself in one word. Sanguine. I am concentrated. I need to be diluted before consumption. I should be filtered. Well I am myself I can be no one else. You love me or you hate me or you must not have met me. People become infatuated with me, hapless victims are drawn to me. You will love me for a week, a month, a year but not much longer than that.
I am concentrated. I am the loud music that makes you lose your hearing. I am the heat that makes you immune to sensation. I am the concentration that makes you numb. I am too loud, too bright, too excited, too much, too me. Not all the time, sometimes I can keep it on level. Unfortunately sometimes my crazy, my ME, gets to be too much. Too much to handle, too much to contain in my 5 foot 5 frame. The crazy spills over and out. I cannot contain it, it runs amuck. I start acting out.
The crazy spills out of my mind into my mouth over my tongue past my teeth and into the street. Sometimes it comes flying out of my clenched fists. I try to control it. I am not very good at it to the casual observer my crazy is plain for all to see. I'm loud and brash. A little too loud a little too bright almost brittle. I try to contain it. And most of the time I can control it, it being ME. But I am like a 2 liter bottle of coke, leave me alone and I am just fine but sometimes if something shakes me up I start to roil and fester and eventually what fit just fine before will never contain me! I must escape and spew forth.
I can usually feel it coming on. I start to dwell. I start to rebel and I snap. It builds and builds I try in little ways to ease the pressure. I write. I sing. I laugh. I talk. I scream. I cry. I weep. I sleep. I think. Sometimes what worked the last time will not work again. I have met cutters before recognized their need. Identified their scars. I cannot do it. I cannot hurt myself. I can hurt others but I have run out of others to hurt.
So I do not cut. But I understand the need to let the blood run. I understand that need very well because of the times when the crazy gets to be too much. I know the feeling when my skin does not fit. When even breathing feels wrong. Like my self is about to split open and my insides will spill out like every flavor jellybeans and lay across the carpet like sweet confetti. But I cannot cut. I understand the need.
I found a way around the cutting a way to let the crazy out. A way to drain my ill humours. I have scars that no one questions or looks at me oddly for. Strangers admire my dedication to others. Praise me for my unselfish good deeds. And my crazy laughs a little too loudly. If I had several small silver scars on the insides of my wrists those same flattering strangers would look at me with pity and some with disgust. Soo hard to explain those sliver scars on the inside of a thigh or the outside of a rib. But how admirable to display one on my chest or the inside of the bend of my elbow. A scar to show how much I care. A scar to bear proudly. Nevermind the reason behind the scar. No need to look questioningly at a scar that I have no need to hide. The best place to hide is in the wide open. I found a way to let the crazy out and leave my self whole.
I do wonder as I watch the scar reopen to greet the sweet sting. I do wonder as I watch the blood start to flow. I wonder as I clench my fist. Does the crazy fade as it loses body heat? Does the crazy die as it slowly cools? Or does it lay in wait and glaum unto the poor weak soul that receives it? I found a way to help myself but I wonder if I am helping or hurting others. Unclench my fist, maybe I should ask if they still have those stickers. The ones you choose if you fear your blood is unsafe for others. What would this nice young man named Michael think if I told him I only donate blood to bleed my crazy? Would he laugh? Would he assume I was unstable? If I explained to Michael that the only reason I donate with such regularity is that upon pawning off a pint of my personal poison I walk out feeling light and free. Sane for another eight weeks.
I wonder about the people who receive my blood what happens to them. Do they become more like me? Would my veins call to them if we passed in the street? Blood to blood like to like. Does the blood I fear find a gracious host in a new body? I never take the cookies or the juice. I practically skip out of the building I feel so carefree. Actually it is usually more of a fast walk, after all I want to get out of there before they make me take it back. If I were to one day be ineligible to donate I might have to take up the cutting. But that would be so many scars for so little blood. Such a small relief. Maybe I could raise leaches?
I can tell when it is time. I have tried to not do it but I end up hating the face in the mirror. I have ugly thoughts all the time but usually I don't act on the voices suggestions. When I find myself giving the suggestions serious thought then I know it has been too long. Time to let the blood run.
Edited by brutoole, 11 September 2007 - 01:56 PM.