The medicine is working.
No thoughts of suicide tonight.
That used to be comforting, you know?
Used to solve whatever problem raised its ugly head.
"Well, I'll just kill myself, that's what I'll do."
And I meant it.
There was this place I'd go inside my head.
This sort of little suicide place.
I knew exactly where it was.
I wasn't going to do it....I knew that.
But it sort of felt like I might in there.
It was all dark blue and almost black,
And my eyes would squint all down
And this feeling would come over me.
And I would concentrate so hard on whether or not to kill myself that the problem would sort of not be there.
Suicide cures all, you know.
Not trying to be funny here....no way.
It hurt in there, like nothing else can hurt.
And always, while in there, I wondered what it would take to make it really happen?
How down you had to be
Which time would I catch myself off guard and really pull it off?
But there was proof there,too.
Proof to myself of just how bad I hurt.
That the hurt was real.
That I wasn't faking.
See, often times this sexual abuse thing is a battle between you and you.
The you that hurts so bad
And the you that tells you that you have no right to hurt
That it really didn't happen
That you're making the whole thing up for attention
And there you are, hurting like a son-of-a-bitch and hating yourself for hurting
So, if you hurt so bad that suicide is possible, it must be real, right?
It stops the fight inside
But makes the problem worse
Now you can hate yourself for feeling suicidal, too.
The possibilities are endless.
But all of it just masks the real pain somehow
And so it serves its purpose.
And now I can't do even that.
Damn lamictal, how dare you do your work so well.
How dare you keep me in the now
Make me face the problems as they are
Stay here in reality
Sitting in a darkened corner so much better than staying in the light
What the hell's so good about staying in the light?
Life's throwing things at me again.
Lots of things at once.
I'm not good at that, you know.
One thing at a time I'm good at.
Got it covered.
I'm an ace.
Not this shit of three or four.
Don't know which to catch
Which to let fly by
And so I miss them all
Oh, I know mine aren't worse than yours or anybody else's
Never claimed that my lot was the world's worst
But do you think that maybe all of this took something from us
Some coping skill
What did it do, this child abuse
This sticking things in places where they weren't supposed to be
Then telling us that it did this and that to us
Then telling us how weak we were for being how we were
I didn't want to be
Full of pain
Don't want to now
The guilt of being weak is worse somehow than all the rest
Hell, yes, he......
And then he........
And I want to cry and beat the sides of buildings and put holes through walls and curl up like a baby in someone's arms.....anyone's arms.....and go to sleep and make it go away and........
Hate myself because it hurts like that
Like something awful burning in my chest
And because I let it hurt
Because I can't get better fast enough
Because it didn't happen at all, did it?
Because I have no right to wallow in it
And now they give me medicine that won't even let me want to kill myself
What will the assholes think of next?
I'm healing now, and I wasn't sure I would.