Scartissue

I'm always eluding to the big surgical scar on my arm from having that abscess removed, so I was taking pictures so I took a pic of my arm (the flash kept turning my arm this glowing white, haha, I'm soooo white, it's almost not funny). Obviously, all of you wish that you could have one too, something so fashionable and... pink! Haha it still hurts like a motherfucker, I think they fucked with the nerves in there or something. So, yeah, now that I've blogged 4 times today (I'm a bit bored, if you haven't noticed). I really am going to bed. = )

It's a long journey from A to B

My leg hurts. I haven't taken my medication in 3 days. The tightness in my joints is slowly building up. It's a cycle that I get into. I take a hit for pain, but I don't feel like walking across the house for my medication. Right now it's lasted for the last two days, but today I will take it. I have to.

I really want a shower. I feel dirty. The TV is spewing ideas in my face that mean nothing and I'm trying to write a paper, but I should be showering. I'm going to be staying at my friends house tomorrow, so I won't be home until wednesday night.

My brain is jumping around and won't focus. It wants to work on the paper, but also think about everything else. I've always been this way: a day-dreamer to the greatest degree. My mind won't focus and it wants to do summersaults and cartwheels instead of typing a work cited page. 

I'm wearing a long-sleeved flannel shirt that I bought a week ago at the Salvation Army. I like it a lot. It's warm enough to wear on the train and in class, but not as heavy as my regular canvas jacket. It's making me sweat right now. Sometimes I wear long sleeves shirts, not because I have anything to hid, but just so I won't have to see the scar from the surgery. I feel like it brings up too many memories for everyone around me and they get more suspicious of what I'm doing when they see it. They pick through things I've said, movements I've made, and they're all connected to that scar. If I hadn't gotten the abscess they wouldn't know now as much as they do (which is really only a slight hunch they have). I don't like seeing the surgical scar. It's not mine. It's weird but I miss how the skin right there used to look. Puckered into a little hill, or pushed into a valley. I knew it was mine. I had done it. This arm doesn't feel like mine. This arm is someone else's and with that, the mistakes I've made must be too. This can't be me.

Cravings

At the moment I want it. I want it really bad. It's not the average kind of desire, but a need that lives in the pit of your stomach. It started this morning, I woke up and was asked how I felt, and at that moment I knew that I wanted. So, I said, "Shit." I waited listening, for each stair to be hit, for the door to be closed, for silence to envelope the house. I got up, feeling nauseous, but I could do it. I opened the cabinet and grabbed my hit, an extra for good look. As I walked into the bathroom and looked at my hand I smiled. Toothy and young, naive? No, not then, never have been, not since August. I swallowed it down with water and I grabbed my computer, a bowl of cereal, looking around the web, feeling, ok, allowing my head to feel heavy, to feel thick, like someone had weighted it. The thought makes me want it more, right now, if I could I would steal it, I would sell anything for it, for a lifetime of that feeling. Fuck. Fuck? You mean fucked up? Well, maybe, but I'm young, too young. Or something like that? As, I walked into the den, I began to put on a DVD, I had moved too much and now knew what would happen. I squeezed the trashcan between my knees and exhaled, inhale, exhale. Deep breaths, moved my hair behind my ears. I studied the rotting banana at the bottom and I gave back the "Wheat Chexs" that I had eaten only a few hours earlier. I guess you might understand? Do you understand? I wasn't like this a year ago, or was I? Is this dormant? Have I always been fucked up? I don't want to be, I want to be free. I want to be happy, or something like that? Right? Maybe not, for a while I thought that a needle exchange down the street would be pretty cozy, haha, but not now. I quit that game. But scars don't quit. Mental, physical, it's all the same game, some just seem more apparent to passersby. They're both real though, more real than you can see, and sometimes when I the mental scars bleed the physical ones repeat it, as a reminder, a hint at what you once did. What I once did. So, guess what I'm doing, maybe you'll get a prize? Probably not, but at least you'll feel special, and isn't that what we all want.