Twitter Prompts – Plays: #2, “psychiatric”

“With Love and Respect to Sarah Kane”

 

It’s nothing.

It’s nothing.

It’s nothing.

It’s 4am.

I feel sick.

Nauseous.

Every day for at least two weeks now, wake up, stomach in throat, burning. No sleep, it’s too hot, even in the winter. My skin burns. Dreams vivid, usually disturbing, usually a side effect of whatever is in this bottle

Little blue diamonds

No, pink, now

they’re not working anymore, they’re not working. I know because I should be sleeping, I should be able to wake up, to smile, to make myself breakfast, to have a job, to show my face in public, to hate myself a little less each day, each day, each day a little less.

But.

I’m not sure what disassociation is or what it’s supposed to feel like.

Every day, once a day, minimum, I float outside of my body. I become aware. I become aware of my surroundings. I become aware that I have a body, that what I am seeing comes from little balls inside my head that connect to a brain, that I live and breathe because blood pumps through my veins, I feel like I could faint. I feel like I;m on drugs. I don’t feel real or human. Life is but a dream. This is all around me a dream. The harsh lights, the air, the foggy ground before me is a dream.

I have never understood, in all my diagnoses, what to feel real has meant, what a normal state—of clarity—is supposed to be. Doesn’t everyone float in and out of their lives like this? Do we not all become aware of our lives and our pending deaths, that we are all bodies, and at any moment this moment in this body could be its last? My last?

I feel
Every hair on my body
As it rises
I pick it off
I can’t shed skin
So I shed

I feel
The skin on my fingers
Tangible reminders
I pick them off
I can’t shed skin
So I tear at it
Because I’m no fucking quitter
Trichotrickotrichotillotillamanimanianiania

Little pink diamonds for the

It’s not that I’m sick, mom, dad, partners, practitioners, it’s that I’m not sick, but now I’m poisonous.

And my hair falls out on its own now. My lovely pride and joy, my hair.

But it’s nothing.

It’s nothing.

It’s nothing.

I like 4 am. I like 4:15am I like the quiet I like how no one else is here and the pressure is off to smile or be witty or compensate for something I’m missing like stability or patience or an ability to articulate

My thoughts

At 4:17am I don’t float out of my body
Every muscle in my body is on fire
Every muscle in my body is on fire
Every muscle in my body is on fire
Every muscle of my body wants to

I could pack up my car and drive
Anywhere
Anywhere I wanted
But
I’m running low on my meds
The fog without them is not worth it anymore
The spiral downwards is not worth it anymore
Without them
Will I make it to 30?

 

7

8

11

12

13

15

16

17

18

20

21

22

23

25

 

25 50 100 50 75 100 100 100 100 100 50? 50? 50?

 

They remind me less
That I should have died
Seven years ago
On top of a fucking mountain

During a mild winter in the south
I still can’t smell trees without feeling an anemic homesickness

I have not earned my level of exhaustion, but I’m there. Other people’s problems are worse. I say this and my shrink just smiles at me. she is young and has beautiful hair. From her I get the best compassion money and insurance can buy. She tells me not to be so hard on myself. With so many good people on your team there is no excuse to not get better, right?

It’s nothing.

That burning in my chest is nothing. That lump in my throat is nothing. That itch to leave is really nothing, really.

Every day. Two weeks. No, a month, no, six months, no, a year, lump in my throat, heart pounding, vicious memories revisited in my sleep, sick, sick, sick.
Little pink diamonds.
Little pink diamonds, now.
To forget
To vanish
To not fucking remember
To purge
To run
to fall into nothing
To fly into something
To forget
To forget
To forget
To forget
To forget
To forget
Here’s to
forgetting

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