The Battle

The hurricane neared, its mass of undulating bodies turning red, flushed with heat, rage and blood. It coursed, like lava, down their limbs to be flicked from fingertips, airborne for a moment only to land on the neighboring body. The bloody lava made its path like that: course, flick, splat, course, flick, splat.
Its Gothic dance melded with the main jive, the swish and clang of blades and soft slice of skin, muscle, bone. Cries fell on rage-deafened ears, which were mindless to the pain. Every whirl, stretch and thrust were made to live and kill. Only the exhausted swung wildly, madmen among mad men.
Seconds, minutes, hours passed unnoticed, a waste of passed time. To get it back could be to get your life back. The ground had turned soft, flesh does that. Now the ground was alive, with lava and limbs. No flicking though, just lava, rolling down smooth expanses, to drip into the quenched dirt. But it would take more; it always does.

Classy Condiments

Use the words: Mayonnaise, Mustard, Soy Sauce, Relish, Pickle, Hot peppers and Ketchup in a story.
His taste in women was complex. If his women were a type of food, I'd say they were pickles. Had I told you that in a conversation, you would reply back "How odd." and I'd say "Not at all you see, pickles are tangy and he likes his women to have a zesty attitude. Now I mean pickles, whole, in a jar with garlic, not pickled relish. It must have garlic because he likes his women to carry a scent of mysterious musk that lingers. Not garlic smelling of course but you understand my analogy." and then you'd say, "Well what about in a sandwich, how could you relate his pickled women then?" trying to stump me of course. I'd easily reply back " It would be on a whole wheat bun, because he wants his women to have healthy buns."
"Who doesn't." You'd mutter.
"I suppose it was a given. He wouldn't have it with mayonnaise, nothing so fatty and boring as that. Mustard I assume would be his choice. Putting mayo on a sandwich would be like putting ketchup on a hotdog for him and he wants a one-of-a-kind woman, not what every other man has. He would top it off with hot peppers."
"That's a bit of an odd sandwich, I don't think I could stand the hot peppers."
"Of course you wouldn't, that is why his taste is complex. What one man shudders at, another man devours."
You would sit there and ponder my comment before concluding, "You haven't mentioned beauty at all."
I would sigh at your foolishness, shaking my head. "It's not about beauty to him, otherwise I might have compared his women to soy sauce."
"Soy Sauce?"
"Yes, dark, tantalising on your tongue and dangerous to your health. Instead I refer to his women as pickles, green and warty because he doesn't care about beauty on the outside."
"Yes well I've bitten into a pickle before and there is nothing beautiful on the inside."
I would push back my chair at that point and stand up to leave, throwing down some paper for the bill.
"Then one day my friend, you may find yourself hungry."

Terrible Two's

You are two years old with a name that has the initials C.A.T.
Name: Chevrolet Avalanche Tacoma
Nickname: Chevy in adult language, Sh-wee in two year old language
Favorite Food: Gravel
Siblings names/ages: Jayna age. 6
How they treat you: Silent Revenge
Thoughts on toilet training: Why poop in the toilet when you can poop in the big thing they call a bathtub.

Here I am stuck in my crib, I've just started to figure out how to escape it but it's hit or miss. If it were nighttime I'd be scared. Beside my crib, on the wall with the ratty shredded wallpaper are three little holes. At night that's where they come from. The worms I mean. I haven't seen them come out of there, but I just know. If you were my age, you'd understand. Us two year olds just know things; things that others don't. It's okay when you're really really old, you'll realized them again.
Anyways, those worms come out of the three holes at night and they fall into my crib. I don't know why but every time they do, I have to cry. Even though they're actually quite pretty. Being the size of half of my daddy's cigars, its easy to see what they look like. Some are indigo, other a vibrant yellow-green but most are black and they all have glitter showing through their skin. I always stand up, because who wants to lie in a pile of worms. It's not long before my mommy saves me. She always asks what's wrong and if I had that kind of co-ordination I'd roll my eyes at her. I walk through the worms to get to her, still wondering why she's even asking. Then she picks me up and I look down, and they're gone. They must have gone back in the holes.
So here I am, stuck in my crib in the daylight. Although today I've stolen some tape and I've stuck it over the holes good and tight.
No more glittery worms visiting me tonight.

A Change of Pace

Since I seem to only write depressing things here, I decided that I'll start posting some writing exercises I've been doing from a book called Write Brain.
Exercise 1:
Include the words: Exorcist, jambalaya, keepsake
Sometimes I feel just like a gerbil running around and around on his wheel. I mean, I do an honest day of work. Although I should feel saint-like being an exorcist, I still feel that I'm just recycling these demons back into the system. Maybe I've exorcised some of the same ones over, how would I know. If I could only take some sort of keepsake from each, to let me know if I meet them again. Like a special jambalaya recipe, then I could say "Hey how do you make jambalaya?" right before I make the demon burst from the body. Although I can't say demons believe in honesty at all costs. I don't even think humans do. The reality of it is... I bet demons make horrible jambalaya.

Natural Selection

I don't like myself. I don't think anyone likes themselves. If they do, they're lying. People that seem to like themselves are the ones who are most guilty of self-hatred.
Many people feel a dislike for the outer things, such as their hair, their butt, their clothes and whatever vain thing you can think of. I'm guilty of that too, of course. At times I can look in the mirror and vaguely agree that I look okay, spin one circle and feel gut-wrenchingly disgusted at myself. I wish it weren't so back and forth like that; it can be tiring.
My disgust runs deeper than that. I hate the way I laugh, which is after every sentence I say because I don't trust what comes out of my mouth. It's a laugh done out of nervousness. What a waste of a laugh. I hate my emotions. My own emotions. People run on emotions, we'd be machines otherwise. I hate what I run on. I can't trust my own reactions. Sometimes I get so hurt by something, and I'm angry, and I feel wrong for being that way. I can't even tell if it's a normal reaction. I wish I could be the carefree, happy person that some people want me to be, but I can't keep wearing masks. Its not always a mask, but sometimes. I feel guilty if I don't put it on. I feel guilty for being mad, which makes me sad. I always wonder if I'll forever be sad. Some say you have to make your own happiness. Or it's all in your mind. Mine seems to be broken. Two angers definately don't make a right, but it sure happens often. Now here I am, sitting alone in an empty room. Its always alone. Listening to country... which has to be a sign that I'm depressed. I just want that smile, someone to touch me, make it real laughter and nothing out of nerves. Seems to be about eggs in a basket. I put one in and the rest follow. Only to have them smashed on the ground. Is it normal to live life saving yourself from hurt? Never fully trusting? I suppose in the end it's about saving yourself above others. That's what everyone is doing, bailing out before they get hurt, at the cost of others. You just have to know when to bail. That's my fault, bad timing.
Am I honestly that stupid? I haven't felt this stupid in a while. I feel like everything I do is stupid, every attempt, every gesture, every mistake. I don't know how long I can last like this. I don't want it to happen again, but if its so reaccuring then maybe it's how it's supposed to be. Kind of like natural selection. The dumb and the weak are supposed to die off so the rest can live on. So they can live together, not alone, and be happy for the rest of their long lives.
I can already feel it beginning.

I died on Friday. I drove fast, crashed through the guardrails, flew over the edge, went through the window, hit the ground below and my truck flipped on top of me. Atleast that was the plan. I felt crazy that night, like my last bit of patience with myself twanged and snapped. I couldn't stop screaming, I could barely see past the tears and the hopelessness seeping out of me could have drowned a million rats. I don't want to talk about why just yet; I'm not ready for that.
Although there must have been something sane, a fine thread holding me back. I wanted help, part of me wasn't ready to die. I called for help, scared the bejesus out of a woman working dispatch who couldn't find a crisis line quick enough. I told her to send the police because I couldn't drive without crashing. What are the odds, the one night that I remain sober and I try to commit suicide. It took them half an hour to get there... I couldn't stop thinking, they could be picking up my remains with the time it took them to get here. Would it hurt them to know that they were too late to save a life? Whats the difference for them between driving a suicidal to the hospital or cleaning up a car crash? More paperwork for the car crash I suppose. When they pulled up I started crying hysterically again - I was so scared. They had their top lights pointed right at me, like a criminal. I didn't want Mary to stop talking to me on the phone; I wanted her to tell them to go away. I knew I had to say goodbye to her and face them. I couldn't even look up. They were timid around me, but very cop-ish. They were worried everything they said would make me snap, but I suppose they didn't realize how much they scared me. By the time they moved my truck onto a side road and I was in the back of the cop car, I was exhausted and confused. I didn't know what would happen in a situation like this. How do you fix a suicidal? Its not like rewiring me in an hour. The police officers kept joking among themselves in the front, unconcerned. They must deal with this a lot. They put me in a room right in front of the front desk, so they could watch me. By that time, I had texted my sister to tell her what happened and that I'd talk to her tomorrow, then I shut off my dying phone. Fortunately, when by the time I had sat down on my hospital bed, she was on the phone with the front desk. She was going to drive out right away, it was about 4 a.m. Knowing that made me feel safer, and much happier but it seemed like forever waiting. I talked to a nurse, I talked to a doctor, I talked the cops, I talked to bloody well everyone and they all asked the same questions. After a while the answers come out in a monotone voice. I felt numb sitting there, staring into space. I either couldn't think or I was trying to decide what sticking my tongue in an outlet would do. Boy did I regret the girls picking that Friday as dress night. It would have been nice to be wearing sweats. My sister was there when I woke up. I've never felt so happy all at once. But like she said, she can't be there all the time and she shouldn't have to be. They told me I need to stop drinking and that I can get help for that. They gave me a crisis line to call at any time. They said I just need to make it till the 30th when my first psych appointment was. I was happy all Saturday, then I was down most of Sunday. I'm up and down again today. I'm either thinking about how great it would be to have a dog, or I'm thinking of ways to kill myself. I have a hard time not letting it sneak into conversations. People seem to find it weird when you randomly start talking about drowing yourself. I can't help it. I dont know how to stop it. I feel like things are going to get better and then at times I feel like no matter what I do, I keep sinking. I don't know the answers and I never understood the point of writing unless you could answer your own questions. Which makes writing pointless to me I suppose, but it also feels like everything in my head can't be contained any longer and it needs to go somewhere.

The Rollercoaster Goes Down But It Also Goes Up

I've never been so up and down before. On a day when I would expect myself to be down, I'm happy. Working from ten to nine at two different jobs - I would expect to be depressed. Who wouldn't? I'm happy to be back at work again, both of them. Even though I feel more than lost at both, atleast I'm doing something. I had two whole weeks off - to think about what I wanted to do I suppose, or maybe to fix myself or just take a break. Well I can't say that's what I did. Instead, I crashed. I was awake until five a.m. and then slept all day which for me is a huge sign that I'm in trouble. Basically (and everyone I explain this to laughs) I stay awake late as a way to keep away tomorrow. I don't want to face a new day. Hell, I don't want face any day. Then I sleep all day in an attempt to avoid admitting that tomorrow is now today. If I could, I would sleep a life time. In a sense, that sounds suicidal, but its not. I'm just saying I want to fall into a permanent coma. I really dont think it's unreasonable. Who doesn't like to sleep? Anywyas if I wasn't sleeping, I was either with my horses or drunk. Eventually at the end of the two weeks, my body foiled me and I got chest pains every time I drank. I'd be a poor alcoholic. I wouldn't say it was too weeks well spent. I didn't do anything that I should have done. I didn't work out, eat well, fix my sleep schedule, figure out what I wanted in the future, I didn't even plant my poor plants in the garden. Today though, I feel better. I called my doc (on maternity leave again, jeez you'd think she'd know how to use birth control! Another one?!) and decided to get help. I don't know what form that will be exactly, but I know even with a good day, I've crashed through the floor and I'm sinking into the basement's unset concrete. I need to talk to someone. To me, paying someone to listen isn't a bad idea. Let's face it, no one cares if you're depressed. I know that no one will continue to read this. Well I atleast know one will; it seems blogging is a good way to keep in touch with what eachother's thinking. It's not that no one cares, it's that people only care to a certain extent. If it causes them grief or time to listen, then they don't want to be involved. No problem. I understand. But it hurts. I think I'm somewhat used to it because now when people want to know how I'm doing, I have a hard time telling. What's the point? Its like bad sex, they're already planning what they're doing tomorrow in their heads. In the defense of seeing a therapist, I think I would listen to someone if I was paid. Or atleast pretend to and maybe that's all I need. So I can't say it was a two weeks well spent but I think being able to come back to work gave me the jolt to atleast make a phone call. Wow it may be almost three a.m. at the moment but atleast it's not five and I did just come in from a run in the rain.