Stitches

My fury surprises me. I have always known I was capable of overwhelming anger, but the little hurt parts of me are aflame with rage. Words flow thick and fast from my lips; thank God I am alone. My face is hot, my eyes blaze. I want to tell the world what it's really like. There's no way I can, but I feel like I'll explode if I don't. There is so much wrong with this picture, this world, this universe, there is so much that must be fixed before I will ever be okay. Heaven is the only place I have any hope for. I don't have any idea what it will be like, I just hope I get to rest in someone's arms for a very long time. Death seems such an easy way out, such a cop-out in a way, missing all the hard stuff to float off to Jesus. I can't kill myself, but there are times when I can't help wishing something else would.

And then I remember all the people who's lives would be temporarily shattered were I to die, and I realize that's not an option either. There are no options, just walls without windows. I must live, but I don't know how or why. I must hold myself together with stitches of my own devising. Who can really be there in this pain? No one. That's what makes it so awful. If there was any way someone could share it with me, then it wouldn't be this pain. It would be bearable.

At least tonight I am not popping pills and champagne and sobbing on my bed with a knife clamped in my fist. At least tonight I am sitting here drinking apple juice and feeling numb. I don't like the numbness because I know what it's hiding, but at least it lets my mind slow down. I have eaten almost nothing today. I am in no way hungry. The adrenaline of rage prevents me from eating.

I will stitch myself together like I always do and life will go on like it always does. But I feel as if I've been severed in two, and it's going to take an awful lot of stitches. And midnight wandering.