ahem. why, no, i do not have a cough. in fact, i never did. that spidery, syrupy, silky red mess creeping down my throat is, in fact, a facade. i am, in effect, throwing my voice.
away.
i have been for a while now.
a·heməˈhem,əˈhm/ exclamation1.
used to represent the noise made when clearing the throat, typically to attract attention or express disapproval or embarrassment.
my throat is sickeningly sweet, my veins are blue-collar blue (blue is the common color of both working class and royalty, therefore therefore, they will say) my bowels, my depths (when they are in they are innards, when they are out they are entrails) are loud and foreboding, my future is uncertain. these soft plastic chairs are sticky and you become one with them when you stay here and watch. you watch the girl with the animal eyes who never learned to use a spoon. you watch the boy with all the cuts who should be holding a football in one hand whilst taking a selfie with the other, but right now is pacing pacing pacing with that look, a hungry and uncertain look, a pitiful and heartbreaking look, someone hurt him someone hurt him someone hurt him and so he hurt himself to take the ownership of the hurt back. he sits too close to you to feel your heat to know that he is still alive because he is, will always be, so so very cold. the girl who is not sure whether she should accept the patch from the nurses is supplicating you, beseeching you, she needs you to answer for her. you are her patch so she can answer the question of the patch. there is so much drumming and humming from some underbelly that you cannot locate but it has teeth, sharp fangs that glisten....and you know there is a brick wall behind this padded one and it goes down down down into the deepest darkest oldest part of the subway system...there is life underneath you right now. heaving and transient and willing and able. you are here, immobile, a plastic pressurized patch mouthpiece, and they are there and it is unfair. you should be down there too. you need to descend lower and lower but you are already so low. since when did you equate up with down, life with death in your head? it can't just be the bustle of the underground transport that fed this assumption. what is it what is it what is it.
GURGLE GASP. sticky sweet vomit, brightest porcelain, pungent bleach smelling of semen and apathy... gasping for air and you are back.
alone. your blood tests are incomplete but that doesn't matter now because you're back. i am ripping up this form (there's a 1, there's a 42. there is a crest. where is my signature. is this about me?) that is keeping you here because you are back. you did come back on purpose, right?
here is your prescription. we will see you in a week.
it is what it is. that is what i was and was what i am.
this blog may appear to have been hacked. it's not. i'm cold and open and they call me alaska.
i'm back but not back. the truth is what I just wrote. i have a shady underbelly to myself, like the city has its transport. mine is never on time, either. for the past 15 years i have suffered (suffered, really? such pity you invite) mental illness that has not been correctly diagnosed (are you sure about that? or is this just more of your drama?). after spending 3 days in PICU after an intentional overdose i think i may be, for the first time in my entire life, getting better. i thought that life was just this grey. for 15 years i thought the pills were working because hey, i didn't want to shoot myself so they must be working right? no, i don't want to go to a party or the movies because i will just die. just die, i will. ok, i will go if i can have some of your substance you got there. thank you. ok lets go. i don't want to get out of bed because i am lazy. it's not because i am sick it is just because i am lazy. i do not want to take my dog for a walk because the sun hurts my eyes. it's not because i find no excitement from anything anymore, it's just because the sun hurts my eyes and these 400 dollar Prada sunglasses that make me look so movie star don't protect my eyes very well but oh my god they are just so GOOD. and i have the handbag to match because fuck it, right? money is to spend.
stop.
this is the real me. all that before was too. the laughter, the pretty things, the pictures. it's all me. facets. but this facet is the realest. and it needs to be dealt with now. this blog has not been hacked; i have been hacked. i have been exposed and wormed out, i have been eaten alive and i have been disfigured and defaced by shiny things in my belly, glistening pills and shiny liquids. i am an addict. and i have a mental disorder. i am human.
this needs to be a sea change. something broke in me on january 31st. but it needed to break. like a carefully painted egg with a little beak pointing out. it may be tragic but it needs to break. i needed to break.
what will this blog be now? still faceted. there will be pretty things again. i promise. i will talk about coney island again because i am still me and me loves coney island. i may or may not talk about clothing again because buying is one of my addictions and looking at pretty clothes is akin to dripping the syringe ever so lightly over your tongue. this blog will probably no longer be a way of escapism. peering into pretty dangling pieces to stay the tide. it will be honest now. and honestly i'm just not very pretty.
this blog has been hacked. but the hacker is the hacked. the road is the same, it has been repaved. no, it's pavement has been removed. here is the grit. here is the curb, and here is the ditch. i will most likely be writing from the gut now. that loud underbelly that still wakes me some nights. you can read, or you can choose not to. hackers generally do not care about their audience. i think. actually i don't know. but this hacker doesn't. well. that's not true. i care about you because you are a human and so i love you. but if you do not want to read it then that is okay and i care not.
this is going to get messy. i promise. *wink*
