Just Once

I can't take it.

I've always got this crushing feeling in my chest, constricting my breathing. I can't ever breathe properly. I think it's a mixture of second-hand smoke, fear, and all those times I got pneumonia.

I never really sleep. Only about one -or two, if I'm lucky- night a week do I ever really get sleep. That's at my dad's house. Here, it's always the same thing: I stay up until about two or three in the morning, until my stepdad's friends' drunken chattering ceases in the room next to mine. Then I fall into an alert half-sleep and wake up around six. I sleep in my clothes. The reason I do all this -half-sleeping for about three or four hours every night in my clothes- is because I'm afraid.

Ever since I was eight, I've longed for teh ownership of a knife. Nothing big or fancy, just a little pocketknife or penknife or switchblade that I can hide easily and keep under my pillow without being hurt. Something that can finally make me feel safe. I'd still never let my guard down, though. I'm too smart for that.

I get threatened a lot. Sometimes I wish he'd just go ahead and hit me, get it over with and get him out of my life. Unfortunately, I'm not that lucky.

I'm secretly a masochist. I love it when I get cut, or scraped, or bruised. I love it when my skin breaks and blood flows out. I love just letting it bleed, sometimes keeping it going longer than it should go, until the wound is pale and dry and I've got a slight dizziness blocking my conciousness. I love it when everything around me becomes hazy with my pain. I love getting hurt doing some crazy stunt for the amusement of myself and others. I love getting into fights, and I don't care how much damage I get because of it. The more the merrier.

I hate seeing myself in the mirror. The invincible rock, so hard and grey on the outside, but fragile and colorful within. I wish everyone could see the inside, but I always admit to myself that I'd never let them. Years of the wrong pain, the emotional pain, at their hands, has led me to distrust of the highest level. And do you blame me? Somehow, I think the love of pain is about seeing that rock crumble, even for a few seconds. The person who won't be put down is being put down by the most important person in her life: Herself. Sometimes I wish it wasn't so, but what can I say? I'm sick.

When I get hurt, it's always an accident. I'm too much of a pansy to do it on my own. I won't lie and say I'm too smart, because I enjoy the pain but can't bring myself to do it myself. I can't say I'm too smart, because if I could I'd take a kitchen knife and dig it into the pale flesh of my arm, watching it in slow motion through my haze of insanity; watching the flesh buckle and finally break, seeing the liquid rubies spill out over the marred white skin and sinew, feeling the warmth of it, watching in morbid fascination as it drips to the floor, I definitely would. So it's not that I'm smart; it's because I'm a wuss.

I'm afraid of needles. Not because of the pain, I've made that abundantly clear. No, it's because of the fact that I'm paranoid. Extremely, insanely paranoid. I refuse to let anyone have anything on me. I never even give away my middle name for fuck's sakes... If someone has my DNA... Ugh.

I refuse to wear bandages. If worse came to worse, I would just rip off a piece of my shirt and tie it around, or use whatever I can find ni my cargo pants (which is usually a mirror, a rope, a lighter or [more preferrably] matches, a spoon, some straws, my wallet, a handkerchief, something I could use if I ever needed a quick distraction, and some spare cloth). I can't stand to have a bandage on my cuts. I never even use anything unless it's serious, which it never is.

People think I'm a freak because I just calmly let the blood flow. I refuse to go to the nurse or use a bandage. Sometimes, I suck it off. Sometimes, I wipe it on my shirt. Once I used it on the picture of a vampire I drew. Really, I just can't be bothered. They think I'm a freak when I can calmly raise my hand in social studies and explain in an even voice that the metal tabs on my folder slipped and sliced my skin open. They think I'm a freak when I keep it flowing for at least an hour after it should've stopped. They think I'm a freak when five classes later, I complain that I got clay in my cut as offhandedly as if I were discussing the weather, and proceed to dig out the clay in front of them. It's not my fault; it's just not a big deal to me. Either the pain doesn't register or I enjoy it. Depends on my mood.

But just once, I'd like to be away from all that. I'd like to be afraid of pain and death. I'd like to be cautious as I am without the need to be cautious that I have. I'd like to open the fridge without some random can or bottle of alcohol falling out and nearly breaking my foot. (thank God that I've learned how to dodge it after a decade) Just once I'd like to cry over physical pain, not emotional. Just once I'd like the only people that are sleeping in my house to be me and my family. Just once I'd like to be treated like a competent human being. Just once I'd like to live in a functional household. Just once I'd like to feel safe. Just once I'd like to feel loved.

In the words of The Smiths:

You shut your mouth
How can you say
I go about things the wrong way
I am a human and I need to be loved
Just like everybody else does.
(The Smiths - How Soon Is Now?)