I don’t want to be a patient tonight. I don’t want to be stuck in this body that feels like it’s drawn too tight over a soul that is breaking from the pressure of its own existence. I don’t want to take the medication, I don’t want to feel the pain, the half-asleep nerve endings, the creepy-crawling feeling under my skin that never goes away.
Living in my body is akin to feeling all the worst scenes of every horror movie you’ve ever watched all at once, whether it was being burned alive, having spiders or insects crawling all over your, losing your extremities because the circulation has been cut off, even having sirens blaring in your ears so loud you can’t sleep, think, or even breathe, where you’re bombarded with sounds so loud you can feel them vibrating along your skin and down into your bones. To watch yourself slowly going insane as pieces of your mind are stripped away.
This is me. Everyday. This is what it’s like being in my body at any and every moment.
Tonight, I just want to be me, not the me I am now, but the me I used to be. The one who could sit down and write to the rhythm of the rain. Though I suppose even then I should have known, I suppose it’s not normal to feel the rain thrumming against the inside of your eyelids, feel the drops hitting the keyboard through your fingers. Still, it was a wonderous feeling before it became too much, I suppose.
The price of playing with our souls, I suppose.