Melon Grab

Light cracks through the semi-drawn curtains and the icy breeze of late December afternoon caresses my pale and bare ass that's poking out from under the duvet. I crack one eye open to make sure that I'm still alive. Then again, who's to say that this really isn't purgatory? If such a place exists. I try to sit up but my head seems to be stuck to the flannel sheets beneath me and my pain screams through my spine as if to tell me he needs a rest. I open my other eye and take a look at my surroundings. 

Ripped and dirty skinny black jeans stand out amongst the sea of diet cola cans, White Russian bottles, margarita bottles, tequila minis and what appears to be a mini bottle of Jäger. Fast food wrappers adorn the candy and bottles. All this work is making my head spin. I close my eyes, feeling my brain begin to pound against my skull. I've not been taking care of myself at all. I'm not in a healthy place at all. One meal a day if anything and the worst kind of shit imaginable I've been shovelling into my mouth. I'm completely disgusting. I don't know why anyone would want to look at me, let alone touch me. 

The smell of alcohol-infused vomit and the metallic, salty smell of blood is making my stomach swirl. I just want to close my eyes and never have to wake up again. The sun stopped shining for me long ago. Why do I continue to linger here, taking up space? I try and sit up, putting the weight of my upper body on the wrist that I mutilated last night. The skin is thin and rips, leaving small scarlet waves in its wake. Why do I continue to do this to myself? I know why I do it; it's more of a question of how I can break the cycle. It's the one addiction I've held on for the majority of my life. It's disgusting. I don't want to do it. I used to love doing it, but now it's more like a chore...some sort of barrier between myself and those I love. It's a way to keep people away from me, which I crave, but I don't want to risk isolating those who want to help me, especially him. He's never said anything directly about the cuts, but from time to time, I see his eyes sweep over them or the scars that decorate me. My mind drifts back to when I first met him. His warm embrace was so different from everyone else who'd seen them. Petey had pulled away. Paula was horrified. Anja showed me her cuts and scars. It was either disgust, horror or a competition, but with him, it was a warmth and understanding. His gaze was like a warm bath. He didn't say anything about them, he didn't pity me, he just held me. Gave me something I badly needed, but felt I didn't deserve. I was dirty and disgusting. It wasn't just because I'd been molested, but because I hated myself. Hated what I saw in the mirror. My self-loathing was crippling me, my ugliness consumed me and yet he reached for me. Maybe he didn't see the darkness within. Or maybe he did and felt as if my demons would be the perfect playmates for his.

I'm hot. No, I'm cold. I've not taken any morphine in almost 2 days. I'm starting to fall apart at the seams. I fumble with the top and the oral syringe. I don't want to feel like this. Its more than a need, it's a desire. It's a lust for the drug. It's a lust for escape. It's the painful longing of not being plagued by the anxiety over the day, the constant reminder that I am not worth anything. I don't want to deal with the sickness bubbling up in my stomach. Everything fucking hurts. I'm sustaining me on empty memories, of things that will never come to be. I'm holding onto fantasy because my reality is painfully empty. I don't think I can handle the pain that my reality inflicts upon me. I just want to curl up into a ball, small and safe, hidden away from the world and everything in it that threatens me. I dwell on moments of imagination so that I can just about manage to breathe; I dream of a life where I am not in agony, a life where I am free. I'd like to believe that I am the master of my fate, but there is just too much out of my control for me to even begin to entertain that notion. 


**I wrote this right after Christmas when I think I was in the worst possible state I've ever been in. It's a period that I really don't want to dwell on, but I do want to look back on it and take something away from it. There was more at work than I realised during the time because I was distracted, my senses dulled by drink and drugs. I don't want to be the person I was when last year ended and this year began. I'm working on new relationships with people, finding new outlets & trying to pursue some of the passions I've long let slip due to depression.**