![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
The Sicilian in me
Feb. 3rd, 2003 02:17 pmSomething's happening to me. I'm angry. Deep inside. Lots of rage. Big, big, massive boiling poisonous rage and I don't know how to let it out. Sometimes I dream that I'm beating the crap out of my own boyfriend through no fault of his own -- just because I need a punching bag. I'm hiding it well. Nobody knows.
It's because of the Changes that have happened, and I am capitalizing the word so those involved know what I mean. The event that changed me October 2001. The aftermath that I so desperately desire to cling to because without that memory I feel like I'm locked in a tiny prison cell, and the shadows just get deeper. I try to climb out the window, but it's too high and there are iron bars. No guards to come let me out. No one comes to visit except those brief moments of sheer joy when it's just me and I'm flying and I'm showing everyone the world outside my prison.
I think I die, psychologically, a little, every time I am reminded of my still-tensed clenched muscles, the limp, the way my wrist turns inward and my hands shake when I do something little like pick up a key. I want to put my fist through a plaster wall, a la Xander in "The Body" episode of Buffy. But for me, there is no one to blame. I'm robbed of that pure joy whenever I stumble over my own feet. There is no beautiful dancer behind my eyes when I move in front of a full-length mirror. Nobody can see me even when they say they can. As much as they can relate, as much as they understand, they can't touch me in my own prison.
I don't want to rely on that event that Changed me. I refuse to place myself in a compromising position. But there is a yearning for what it leaves behind. I long for the freedom I felt. If there were a way to have that freedom in my body without recalling what happened, I would jump at the chance. I hate myself for believing I could cure myself. I hate myself for believing my prison could disappear. I hurt myself, mentally, for thinking I could be free.
I need to do something. I need to talk to someone, like Watson. Watson, you know. You understand. You feel. You know how to channel the anger. Help me. Teach me to fight. Teach me to throw a punch that hurts, to kick, to fly like a warrior does. Wounded animals fight the hardest because it's for survival or nothing, right? Make me a wounded wolf. I want to release this rage. Every time I look at my friends, any of them, there is a fleeting image of my fists and their bodies and their blood--especially the one I love most. I almost feel glee at this because it's easier than thinking about hurting myself, because hurting my own body would just make the locks on the prison that much bigger.
Why do I want to hurt him? Because he makes me believe the impossible? Because he makes me want to believe in me? Because he believes in me, has faith in me? Because deep inside, I feel like he's lied to me when he says I can be strong and beautiful? This thing that Changed me gave me a glimpse into a life I could have led and may never see again. I don't know what I'm supposed to do now. How do you channel and calm an anger and a grief so great it tears you up and bleeds you dry?
What do you do when you've seen the perfect dream and realize the only way it can ever be yours means you may never come back?
It's because of the Changes that have happened, and I am capitalizing the word so those involved know what I mean. The event that changed me October 2001. The aftermath that I so desperately desire to cling to because without that memory I feel like I'm locked in a tiny prison cell, and the shadows just get deeper. I try to climb out the window, but it's too high and there are iron bars. No guards to come let me out. No one comes to visit except those brief moments of sheer joy when it's just me and I'm flying and I'm showing everyone the world outside my prison.
I think I die, psychologically, a little, every time I am reminded of my still-tensed clenched muscles, the limp, the way my wrist turns inward and my hands shake when I do something little like pick up a key. I want to put my fist through a plaster wall, a la Xander in "The Body" episode of Buffy. But for me, there is no one to blame. I'm robbed of that pure joy whenever I stumble over my own feet. There is no beautiful dancer behind my eyes when I move in front of a full-length mirror. Nobody can see me even when they say they can. As much as they can relate, as much as they understand, they can't touch me in my own prison.
I don't want to rely on that event that Changed me. I refuse to place myself in a compromising position. But there is a yearning for what it leaves behind. I long for the freedom I felt. If there were a way to have that freedom in my body without recalling what happened, I would jump at the chance. I hate myself for believing I could cure myself. I hate myself for believing my prison could disappear. I hurt myself, mentally, for thinking I could be free.
I need to do something. I need to talk to someone, like Watson. Watson, you know. You understand. You feel. You know how to channel the anger. Help me. Teach me to fight. Teach me to throw a punch that hurts, to kick, to fly like a warrior does. Wounded animals fight the hardest because it's for survival or nothing, right? Make me a wounded wolf. I want to release this rage. Every time I look at my friends, any of them, there is a fleeting image of my fists and their bodies and their blood--especially the one I love most. I almost feel glee at this because it's easier than thinking about hurting myself, because hurting my own body would just make the locks on the prison that much bigger.
Why do I want to hurt him? Because he makes me believe the impossible? Because he makes me want to believe in me? Because he believes in me, has faith in me? Because deep inside, I feel like he's lied to me when he says I can be strong and beautiful? This thing that Changed me gave me a glimpse into a life I could have led and may never see again. I don't know what I'm supposed to do now. How do you channel and calm an anger and a grief so great it tears you up and bleeds you dry?
What do you do when you've seen the perfect dream and realize the only way it can ever be yours means you may never come back?
