I’ve been filled up with this bile, lately. It burns my throat and makes me sick, although I have nothing to spit, nothing to vomit. I don’t know how to tell myself that those thoughts are no good. And trust me, they are not. I don’t like these things I’ve been feeling for the last days. I don’t like not liking me. I don’t like not being able to recognize my face in the mirror. Everything is horrible about me and about the way I’m dealing with that shit — which is not dealing with it at all. I can’t even acknowledge what is it that I’m waiting for, or whatever I want, or if is there something that I need. No place is comfortable, no place is familiar, no place is home. It tires me to the bones to feel unwelcome everywhere; I feel unwelcome in my chest.
I have some old friends visiting. They are even more unwelcome to me than I am to myself. They’ve brought lots of lugage, even though I don’t want them to stay. None of me likes them. There’s no space for all of us, doesn’t matter how huge it is in my head. They grow too fast, spreading their roots like a disease, taking the walls, sealing the windows, suffocating me. [Suffocating me with tenderness, soft long fingers around my throat, making me comfortable with the pain.] I hate it. One of them comes to me in my bedroom; we met a few years ago. Polite as only an old friend can be, he knocks very kindly, and I feel all my skin twitching in warning. Don’t ask me why, please don’t ask me why I let him in. It’s one of those moments where you just can’t be rude, you understand? And you… miss… the fear? (Does it make any sense?) His steps are silent as the wings of a moth and I notice him recognizing the new room. “You moved to a new place”, he says. He means that I left him behind. I feel all the hidden words he doesn’t pronounce, as a blind reading in Braille. “It’s bigger. I like it here. Are you happy?”. I stare into his inexistent eyes, take a deep breath and open my mouth, but there’s no sound. Not a whisper, not even a moan. I look away. He knows. He always does.
We slept together that night. Cozy arms and wet lips. He promises me everything, tells me all the lies I like. Lights up my cigarette, brings me hot bitter coffee, whispers a funny story into our kiss, covers me up with my favorite blanket. His long soft fingers caress my neck, wanders to my collarbone, always soft, always harmless. I could tell you that I resisted, that I pushed him off the bed, told him to stay away, but it would be just another lie. I love how he makes me feel. And then, when I’m as vulnerable as possible, in the middle of the night, he reaches out, tears my chest and touches my heart. Everything turns black.
Funny as it may sound, the depth of the abyss feels amazingly welcoming. Again, my spine warns me that something just isn’t right, but I chose to ignore it. To ignore myself, my instincts and my needs. I don’t know why. Stop asking me that.
After no time, someone pulls me back from the abyss. There’s too much light around her — to be fair, there’s too much light everywhere. It was hot and silent and dark in the shadow. She starts screaming (so loud!) at me, and I only had a glance of her arm before she slaps me in the face. “Wake up!”, she says. “You can’t do this again.” She’s crying. She’s mad at me for letting him in. She’s me. I’m her. Her long arms around my cold body are a shock, a collision of temperature. She won’t let me go. I thank god in silence.
I didn’t want to go back home. I remember how it was when I left; when he took me away. That’s why I allowed him to, in the first place; because I didn’t wanna be there, I didn’t wanna deal with unwelcome visitors and long roots and sealed windows and anything related to that shit. I couldn’t. My eyes would melt into tears before I could even try to shut them out. There’s too much lugage and not enough space. I don’t fit in there with those faceless demons taking the place. She tells me that I have to go back. As if I didn’t know. Why won’t she leave me alone, in denial, forever? Don’t answer. Her arms are wide open right behind me, as the wings of an angel — or an apocalypse knight. “Don’t leave me”, I whisper. I feel her nodding her head to me. She’s not going anywhere.
I haven’t got to the part where I go back and expel all those bad feelings from my head. I haven’t even fully understand who’s that version of me, helpful and strong enough to pull me back from the abyss.
I still dream about him, though. It’s complicated, as a toxic relationship or an addiction. I enjoy the suffering, the feeling of drowning, the weight on my chest. I like his lies and the touch of his fingers; I enjoy being vulnerable around him, because I know he’s going to hurt me if he can, and I crave for it. Maybe because I have no care for my own safety, for my well being, for myself at all. Most of the time I catch myself thinking about inexistence. Inexistence is different from death, of course. Death implies a long and laborious plan of ending something, while the inexistence I contemplate is about simply not being here. Forever? Not necessarily. But for a while. Just long enough for me to be forgotten, maybe. I wish no one would ever worry about me again, or think about me again, or even remember me. I wish I could be gone long enough to never be part of anyone’s life. Live as a ghost. And that’s what his touch feels like, that’s what I enjoy: the sensation of inexistence.
I still don’t know what I’m gonna do. Where to go. But I’m not alone and she won’t let his touch hurt me again. I’m thankful and afraid. Of everything. Doesn’t make any sense — but why would it?