waiting quietly until the propranolol kicks in, waiting for the ill feeling in my stomach to be eclipsed. replacing one worry with another. worrying about weight gain. where is my worth if the number on the scale grows? maybe Dr. [redacted] was right; I just don't want to become like [redacted], but that's an awful thing to think, because they are a good person, and besides, I honestly don't give a fuck about anyone's weight.

only my own.

maybe it's just the pinnacle of my own vile egoism.
maybe it's just anxiety, picking up yarn threads and making an utter mess of what, when untangled, is actually a harmony of colours.

still, perhaps it would be best if I didn't eat.
is it me or is it disease?
do I want an answer?

the neighbours are having another domestic, my heartrate is skyrocketing, my stomach is sour, and my head feels like a smashed strawberry with a needle in it. trying to breathe, but every now and then a scream of something you should not say in front of small children breaks through my headphones and the loudmouthed evening wind. unfortunately there are many small children in this complex. just stop, just stop screaming, either make up break up or shut up I don't care which but choose *one*, I think I can taste the cortisol pumping through my body...

conditioned reactions to masculine aggression; cower, tremble, fear. you will be hurt. someone will be hurt. there is danger. men are danger.
{but some of the people I love the most in the world are masculine.}
you don't understand. I am Anxiety. your Logic has no power here. also, run, curl up, hide beneath your desk, you are in danger.
{nobody is within twelve feet of me!}
you are in Danger, and you will believe me. even if you don't want to. even if you don't really. I am Anxiety. you are just a girl.

they're coming to take me away, ha ha...

I rage and I rail.
I want to connect, but I can't. I feel the heaviness of eyes upon my potentiality.
Should I set my jaw, blow you away, like so much dandelion fluff?
'what I do is not up to you'

drowning quietly in american tragedies. the entire world is like a new england evening. the leaves are red and gold and orange and fade to shades of deepest blue. there's pumpkin spice on the air.
and when i open my eyes, it's spring again, here, where the world smells so gorgeous (lantana at night, greener than envy; and spring in the mornings, soft ochre hinted with fire).

I don't know what I'm doing, what I'm waiting for
my belly feels swollen with next to no food, my hands shaking for no reason
I sleep peacefully (drugged) beneath whispers of sheets in a Heian-dark room with the sun still blazing outside; I wake up chilled to would-bes and starlight

I keep expecting to open my email and find something denouncing me, sparking me evil--
the problem is that I feel purposeless, bored, floating on a breeze that is taking me nowhere
that is made of 'maybe's and 'well if...'s
I need a storm of certainty to stay upright, to become the person I want to be. I am not yet who I want to be.

return to the american tragedies.
safe, safe, reasonably safe.

stoned on legal painkillers (you can't sleep in pain), wild with possibilities, the beat of the songs I'm listening to feeling like they're echoing in my throat, physically...
happy because of the numbers falling; I can subsist on this happiness as long as I avoid other things.
(I swear to god, Facebook is a joy vampire.)

...there must be a way. I'll sew my life back together, if I must. I was always handy with thread and needle.

eat the cookie because a meteor might fall on the house in the next five minutes.
don't eat the cookie because on d-day you'll be hissing and swearing and trying not to cry as you stare at the numbers.
eat the cookie because you need something in your belly or the nausea won't go away.
don't eat the cookie because the nausea won't go away anyway.

who knows where or what or when or whichever is the right choice, the wrong choice. the way life bends and trips everything's the wrong choice, or the right one. I'm still waiting on that mythical right decision. I have plenty of wrong ones I could trade in for it by now, surely.

clock ticks, 4:31. not quite pi. (apparently 'pi' is a mood. if pi can be a mood, why not 'seven'? 'three-hundred-and-fifteen'? any other number? I'm only using Logic.)
ah, my good friend Logic...
the more I dance with you, the more I realise that you have no place here in this ballroom. you trip and stumble and I end up leading *you*; you're an awful partner. certainly, sometimes you pull through -- a graceful step here, an elegant movement there -- but instants later you're falling down and pulling me with you. it's frightful. I won't have it. I won't have *you*.

I dream of a mermaid with hair like honey, eyes like her own seas, and a pillowy lip I drive myself mad thinking of kissing. Do mermaids fall in love with selkies? Could they? Why not? This world is big and wide and mad and full of surprises and astonishments.

We sit on the beach and curl up in each other's arms and smile at the tragedies we managed to live through. We breathe seawater and braid each other's hair with sheels and pearls. We dream in the deepest marine.

We surface.

If only I had the bravery to call her name.

fear fear fear fear
anxiety sharp enough to make the kidneys ache
you know you aren't dealing with it, but when you have to be strong for someone else, there's no "have a minor breakdown" option. there is also anger -- "how fucking DARE you set foot on my property?!" -- which is useless. it's all very very useless. and painful. where do these body aches come from? you ask but you already know.
flight-fight-freeze. you default to fight more often than not. but whichever one your lizard brain decides you should use, the physical aftereffects are still the same.
pointless thoughts. if you put razorwire on the top of the fence, will that stop people? will you be safer?
will this pill work and kill the pain and the constant thud of panic?
will you ever feel safe at night in your own home again?
how dare you set foot on MY property. thoughts are tangled like brambles and curses. writing helps. even nonsense writing. writing has always been your sword and your shield. poet, protect thyself.

I feel like I've sold out, I feel like I'm worn out, I feel like I've forgotten what it means to be myself. I can play to any crowd and I can wear any mask, but I can't stand to see something other than myself in the mirror. I feel like I've been trapped in a moment that won't release me until I find something as precious as it was in the present. I remember lyrics to songs but I can barely remember a word I learned over the summertime. When I woke up suddenly the whole world was sick. The air smells like it's rotting. I break apart and come together again as something vicious and truthful. I can't remember yesterday, I can't remember five minutes ago.

"tell me you're crazy, maybe then I'll understand"

it swims swims swims through your veins like a koi fish in peacock hues and shot silver, streaking through you like the touch of a friend
(it's so nice to not be in pain)
establishing sureties and warning signs, tangling yarn and threads as I untangle my life
-- or, at least --
attempt to make a tiny piece of beauty out of all the lifetangles. I believe I can be happy. any place can be the capital. I want to believe it.
another me remembers when the world was even smaller than this, but it was a glitter globe of wonder and love and beauty.
I think it can be again.
it's worth it, waiting to see if I'm right.
(how much of this is sensible, how much of it is painkillers? does it matter? just paint the sky with stars. I'll sing to you under that stelliferous canvas just like I used to.)

all words © Rin, sometime (purposefully undated)
return home?