Más fragmentos

2-nov-2019

I was raised at an all-girls school. All-girls. A bunch of girls I hate, some I liked, some I loved. They say they may have to take one or both of my breasts. I am a woman or a girl and having breasts is woman-ly. Body makes me a girl and suffering makes me woman. My breasts are supposed to attract suitors and feed my offspring. Attract because men will look at my body and deem me worthy of attention or not. My offspring should feed off of my body. Most of the all-girls are already married and some have children. I grew up with a group of horrible girls who tormented me because my body refused to blossom along with theirs.

I will not bear children because my loins are barren. Barren. Like fields. I convinced myself I did not want to bear them, but who's to say now. You once told me a story of how you cheated on a girlfriend and how you felt the hands of that other girl like talons holding your loins and how you could not feel anything beyond her hand-talons within you. You were not sure if you felt regret or accomplishment or both at once. We marvel at how we can experience contradiction. Did she hold your loins to harm you? Did you want her to hurt you so you would feel less guilty? We learned to link pain with forgiveness — we may do harm, but being hurt by someone else offsets our transgression.

I wonder if the collapse of my body is supposed to offset the damage I have done to others. I don't think it would be enough, but who am I to say. Who am I to dispel their talons from my loins.

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23-oct-2019

Sometimes I perceive pain as noise and it becomes bearable. I have perceived meaning lagging behind the sound of words and don't know what to do with it. It scares me, like that nightmare wherein all colors turned to shades of red. All was red — even feelings, somehow. I knew it was a dream, but I felt red-scared of everything. I was eleven or so. I think the dissociative episodes started after that nightmare.

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21-oct-2019

Pangs: of hunger, guilt, lust, pain. A physical reaction.

"J'ai tant rêvé de toi que tu perds ta réalité." (I dreamt of you so often you become unreal.)
—Robert Denses

I don't think most suicidal people wish for death, but for non-existence. Death seems too much an abstraction; too underdetermined, yet too scary to wish for. Death is a threshold without the possibility of return, and most deaths are painful in one way or the other: the body clings frenetically to life. I have seen long-agonizing humans still clinging to agony; except for acute moments of crisis, the body remains lethargic — passive, even.

I wonder how it will feel when I die. Will I cling to this body, as if I were something different from it? Will something mine remain other than these pages? Will I experience hope? Hope. I am weary of that word; the amulets they brought me, having me in their thoughts, refusing to look me in the eye. I think they are also tired of caring for me. I know. It must be exhausting.

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20-oct-2019

Megan came to visit and brought some pizza hidden inside her backpack. I knew it would make me sick, but I wanted to taste it. I vomited for two hours, but Megan and I laughed the whole time. Small victories, I guess.

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