"My eyes are open, Tyler."
Dec. 28th, 2003 11:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kittydesadeMy brain is in a state of disrepair. Disarray. Dissatisfaction, dis-something. I'm not sure.
It's amazing the things we do, and you know who you are if I mean to include you in the we. Torturing ourselves to the point of Dissociative Identity, Multiple Personality, whatever disorder you want to call it. All in the name of fiction, of a good story. Or perhaps that's not why you do it. Me, I have people in my head and I can't get them out. I haven't been able to since I was five years old, as far back as I can remeber.
It's not so much that I'm crazy. I am a little crazy, but not so much that I can't tell the world most people live in from the one I live in. And most of the time it's all right. Most of the time I am normal. But every once in a while...
Last night I got into a fight with the oldest. Perhaps it's ironic, or perhaps it's simply sad that the oldest character I ever concieved of, first my imaginary friend and later my constant literary companion, does not have his own story or plotline or project in and of himself. Oh, he did, for a little while. It fell through, and left him standing on nothing. I think he blames me more than a little for that. But I've no idea how to fix it.
Last night there was a fight, and words exchanged that should not have been. And I find myself confronting the strangest things: the possibility of my own dementia, the reality of the voices in my head. The fact that sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can feel lips on my lips, arms around my shoulders. I can feel tears on my face that aren't mine. Have I gone completely mad, or am I simply imaginative? There isn't really much difference between the two.
And either way, I am faced with the betrayal, by my self, of my self. The angry words that lie between me and my oldest friend like a great corpse of what used to be. And I don't know what to do anymore.
It's amazing the things we do, and you know who you are if I mean to include you in the we. Torturing ourselves to the point of Dissociative Identity, Multiple Personality, whatever disorder you want to call it. All in the name of fiction, of a good story. Or perhaps that's not why you do it. Me, I have people in my head and I can't get them out. I haven't been able to since I was five years old, as far back as I can remeber.
It's not so much that I'm crazy. I am a little crazy, but not so much that I can't tell the world most people live in from the one I live in. And most of the time it's all right. Most of the time I am normal. But every once in a while...
Last night I got into a fight with the oldest. Perhaps it's ironic, or perhaps it's simply sad that the oldest character I ever concieved of, first my imaginary friend and later my constant literary companion, does not have his own story or plotline or project in and of himself. Oh, he did, for a little while. It fell through, and left him standing on nothing. I think he blames me more than a little for that. But I've no idea how to fix it.
Last night there was a fight, and words exchanged that should not have been. And I find myself confronting the strangest things: the possibility of my own dementia, the reality of the voices in my head. The fact that sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can feel lips on my lips, arms around my shoulders. I can feel tears on my face that aren't mine. Have I gone completely mad, or am I simply imaginative? There isn't really much difference between the two.
And either way, I am faced with the betrayal, by my self, of my self. The angry words that lie between me and my oldest friend like a great corpse of what used to be. And I don't know what to do anymore.
