(no subject)
I am a puzzle of imperfections, both the slight and the apparent, the intrinsic and the outwardly visible. My body is no work of art; I am no display model; I cannot wear skirts that reveal my garters or shirts that accentuate my breasts. My skin is uneven, sundered, a barrens of illegitimate scars from my more stupidly spontaneous days, when I collected loose razors in empty Altoid boxes and I was thoughtless. When I couldn't arrest my fury. I hoarded more than tools to break the skin, but those bent on keeping my mind from doing the same -- breaking. An array of elliptical sleeping pills, mood stabilizers, and anti-depressants with cycloptic smilie-face patterns imprinted on their purple surfaces grinned up at me whenever I opened the tin case for whatever reason, guiltily interrupting them from the sensuous jumble that occurred when I dropped them carelessly back into my bookbag. I would always attempt to rationalize my avoidance of taking those pills as I should when I was in my down moments; they were expensive, though not from my own pocket, and I was moody. But then my attitude would elevate inevitably, slam that cornucopia of mental illness to the back of my mind, the contents of the Altoid container shuddering like maracas with my every movement. Impossible to excape my notice, but I managed to put my thoughts elsewhere. Eventually, they began to smell like eggs. Eventually, I was able to pinch my nostrils against the stink and dribble them down my throat, over twenty, all at once.
It's odd to note that others would recall my birthday every year of my life without fail, yet forget the first anniversary of the day my life nearly ceased. And thereafter, to tell me that it was but a picayune event, its significance minor and not worth the time to blink over. I attempted to adapt this mentality directly after my overdose, but others wanted to talk about it, they wanted to confront me and stress the import of its remembrance. Now, once I've the event locked into my consciousness, everlasting, one of the most terrifying experiences of my life simply doesn't register any longer. I was wrong to forget and wrong to acknowledge. I'm wrong no matter what I do.
My belly is rotund and pregnant with suppressed thought. Each bite swallows invisible, emotional bonds to be broken down in my stomach, while each sip is carbonated with little memories to be digested into waste. Even the air I breath is implicated, releasing tiny bubbles of mood into my bloodstream. These are my inner imperfections that I fight to cleanse myself of in perpetuity. I grow constantly. I expand. Perhaps this is my beauty -- but even this beauty weights my steps and keeps my eyes half-lidded to the confrontations of real life.
A year and a day ago, did my attempt fail just so I could exist like this, to write these letters to myself without a person to talk to? Everyone, I am at your complete disposal. I did not live to be lonely like I am now. I welcome every random call I receive in the night, only to discover that it was a wrong number, or the right one, in fact, but only for the purpose of getting another number from me. Sometimes I won't even pick up the phone, so as to retain some semblance of dignity. The reality is, I haven't that, nor pride.
I'm having trouble finding my beauty. I expand, and I contract. It is the way of things.