Scratching my brain

I’m sad, and angry and tired. Especially tired. Unable to keep up with time. Hours and days go by like nothing ever happened and at the same time every second seems to drawn me, to find out at the end of the day that another 24 hours had gone by and I’d done nothing with them.  Eternal lists with “to do” on the heading lay on the several tables I use to work and worst of all, on my mind. Things to do keep accumulating around in real and non real format, it’s exhausting. When I’m finally able to end up with some of the tasks I take no pleasure in crossing them from a list, it’s like I have no feelings left. I’m so focused that I cannot focus in anything else, seems a beautiful contradiction, one of this ironic life situations which is usually solved with some drinks, some friends and some laughs, at least for a short period of time. Nothing is being solved, they say it’s just a matter of time. They say that never will ever be the same but that eventually tears dry on their own. It feels like the real world has faded away. Colors look faded away, like that time I left some newspapers out under the sun and under the rain and under the claws of my cats, now the world looks like those newspapers, old and wrinkled and dull. I feel like crying, but no tears come out of my eyes. I feel like screaming, but no sound comes out of my throat. I feel like running, but no movement comes out of my muscles.
All the scars I have left in my skin remind me of how not to deal with it. I look at them more often that I should. I look at them with pride and shame. It was a cold night in November, not it was not, I don’t even remember when it was. But I locked myself in a room and did it.  I slashed my precious and soft skin, of course there’s no scar left from that time. It didn’t even bleed that much but God I cried. I cried a hundred rivers I think, shivering, feeling my boiling tears running down my face. And then came the other times, those other times I even enjoyed the cold, the feeling of not being myself, the hesitation, the cold steel looking for the warm blood, it was even kind of a love story. The hot, the cold, the weak, the strong…very much alike any Shakespeare’s tragedy. I remember how I used to cry, I remember how I used to shiver and then I remember how I even did it with no hesitation or tears or even a feeling. What I remember more is the feeling of alienation, this sense of not being myself that time, the chance to be somebody else for a while. And the fear and anxiety of someone finding out. Many people found out in the end, it was logical, when summer was around and my arm would be full of perfect straight lined wounds which I would try to cover and invented pathetic excuses for them such as “my cat scratched me” and people’s answer would be “you don’t have a cat” or that I had fallen in a bush full of spikes and trying to stop a worst result i put my arm first, as I said, pathetic and useless.
And then came the acceptance, that was me and there was no covering. People would see my scars and ask and I would just answer “so what”. I wonder what that people thought of me. Many of those around that time tried to help, I know many of them really cared, I guess thank you.
Finally THE day came, the day in which my worst fears became true and I lost it. I remember I couldn’t stop crying, my dad and brother were screaming and I couldn’t even hear them, all I could hear was a distant ringing in my ear, like in the movies after an explosion, I locked myself in my room and desperately looked for my last private razor exclusively reserved to slash my skin, and I did. I gave myself such a clean and deep cut that I could see my fat in little balls coming out along with much blood. In a second I was more scared that I had been in my life, until last Sunday. That day I crossed a line I thought I would never cross, I lost all respect for myself, the little that was left. Many days followed THE day, I have had worse episodes since that day.
Until last Sunday I thought I would never feel that lost, that vulnerable and that clueless about what to do. But then reality hits you with no mercy. And although I had payed for those moments and I have my scars like a huge A in my clothes that show my past mistakes, nothing compared to now. I discovered then that the never ending song that scratched my brain was never about anybody else but about myself. And it keeps scratching my brain, at least, just my brain this time.

[You’ll be deeply missed]