Wading

It's a slash your wrists kind of night.  

The mean reds are taking hold and the anxiety is building.  I hate it.  Been trying to distract myself.  If only I would do what I really need to do it would make most of the negative feelings to away. I'd be back to just melancholy.  But I'm paralyzed with inactivity. 

I don't know why this hits me like this.  And the doctors don't care.  Not really.  It's easy to say the things they want to hear so that we can all agree that I'm fine and can go about my day. 

Pretend the overwhelming tide is not there waiting for me to lose y footing and be pulled under by the undertow.  To ride the current deep beneath that rages and cries out to be let loose.  

I've grown accostumed to the wrist imagery.  The passiveness of them splayed outward.  The invisible cuts that run so deep because in my mind I have made them a million times.  

It's almost a soothing act.  

I can almost see how cutters find solace in their lonely actions. 

But I don't want the pain that accompanies a real slice.  And I don't want to die.  

I was becoming alarmed with my self until a few years back when I read a passage that saved me.  It was from an herbalist. She talked of an increasing need for the imagery to sever ones hands from their body.  A subconscious need to communicate to oneself that the work to be done was too much and not welcomed.  That the anxiety in doing it was creating a wish to obliterate the things that would carry out the unpleasant tasks.  

So much sense that made.  I do not wish for self mutilation.  Nor do I wish for permanent release from duties.  Just a temporary albeit psychological break from all that is in my hands.  

So I draw the lines again and again.  Feeling helpless in my inability to take charge.  Falling into the futility of it all.  Feeling the waves crash over me and clinging to staying upright.  

My hands attached.  Begging them to be useful. 

All the while physically feeling the slice.  Again and again and again. 

I know what will make it stop.  Ad perhaps tomorrow will be the day I can accomplish the tasks.  But not tonight.   

No. 

Tonight is for the mean reds and fanciful distractions.  

Tonight is a slice your wrists kind of night.  Hoping that you can feel.  And care.  Or better yet take action.  But knowing that the anxiety is stalking you  and waiting to pounce each time the tv turns off or the FB statuses quit coming.   

Its a panic and curse the 3 hr time difference so you can't call anyone night.  

All the while  feeling the imaginary numbness take over where the slits would be.  

Tonight is a feel all alone and bereft of company night as you realize it's getting later and later and yet you won't be sleeping night.  Until exhaustion finally wins out and takes hold of the body.  The sweet reflief of sleep coming way to late and bringing on.y a few precious hours of much needed rest. 

Acceptance of this state not making it better. Or worse.  Just bearable.