I woke up this morning surrounded by scraps of paper with scrawled notes written on them. Ink on my hands, arms, chest, face. And oh, reading the notes- trying to decifer the mind that had written them and hoping that the words were a printing error commited by a hand. I'm not one person. I'm a person who can begin notes; suicide notes or maybe the beginnings of great novels- the difference is what comes after the note, the action or inaction. It's intent and desire and movement. I'm a person who is terrified of finishing anything and being backed into a corner by the words- being forced into action by the logic of a twisted mind, an alien mind that feels at war with every other organ and is not the same mind as the one that inhabited the same space, a time before. I fantasise about nothing, literally nothing, a Rebecca Condron-less world. I'm a person who, in the next breath, decides on baby names and plans trips and adventures and some sort of future.
Truth be told though, I've never believed that I'd live a long life.
Saying that, I'm never quite sure of the truth. Not anymore. I'm not trying to be deep- this isn't a Descartes thing or anything vaguely philosophical. I really do trip over my words and my stories and I lose sight completely of what the truth is, and what's a story and that I told myself and I now believe. And as I'm telling a story to somebody else, sometimes I get part way through and siddenly realise there's not a bit of truth to it- the entire story is a LIE, that for a few minutes I genuinely believed. Sometimes I get to the end and wonder if it was a lie. I don't know how to describe the feeling. It's like, when you go to tell- no, I don't suppose most people do that. Hang on, let me think. No, I don't know.
I'm ok right now. Yesterday was strange, before I began writing and then took a triple dose of Seroquel (I wanted a long and dreamless sleep, because I needed to clear my mind), I pulled off my toe nails. Well, I only had two nails left that were of a length that could be torn off (when I'm stressed, I make a horror show of my feet), but I pulled those two off. I took one of them, the big toe on my left foot, a little further than I meant to and ripped off all the cuticle, absolutely everything- half my toe is just a weeping sore. I was scared, so scared. It's a strange feeling, knowing that you're not in control. I'm in control right now and for all these ramblings, I'm safe. I'm not backed into a corner and I never finished anything I wrote yesterday- disconnected, disturbing scraps of great novels (they will never be suicide notes, so what are they?) are all over my floor.
But they're not in my head. When the thoughts on the papers is alien, I'm safe. When the notes on the scraps are unfinished, I'm frozen in inaction. But I'm tired of trying to second-guess my own next mood and move.