Flashes of half remembered dreams haunt me. Was it a dream? Was it a memory? Images and sensationd are fly, fleeting across my subconscious.
Arms pinned down above my head held in one hand. Sharp and painful finger bones bruising my tiny wrist bones.
Someone shouts, "NO!"
My eyes open. My stomach is clenched. My heart is racing. The vision is fading.
I smell coffee.
By the time I get out of bed the only sensation lingering is the sharp pain in my wrist. Where his bunny fingers hurt my skinny wrists.
The pain and an upset stomach. And a bad mood. And a heavy, cloying, clawing emptiness.
I travel through my day on auto pilot. The goats pick up on my sour mood. They act up, act out.
My mood worsens.
My husband picks up on my mood. He runs away.
I want to run away. Want to be able to run away.
He goes to town to run errands.
When he's here, he sits silently, appearing to listen, not wanting to hear the details.
He goes back to town. To the bank. To the post office. To buy cigarettes wine animal food.
Anywhere but near my mood.
He comes back only to get changed to go to work and I'm left alone. Empty.
Emotions from my late teens and early twenties batter me, batter my stomach, batter my brain. Back then I hated being alone.
Once again, I hate being alone.
I'm empty. But I'm full.
Maybe chocolate will help. No. It didn't. What else in the kitchen?
Nothing sounds good.
Open the fridge.
Nothing looks good.
Smoke a cigarette. Smoke another.
Open a bottle of wine. Gulp down wine directly from the bottle.
Flash of a memory long thought suppressed. Hip bones digging into my inner thighs. Carnival music. Whisky vomit. Mine?
Open the laptop. Try to write. Close the laptop. Pace about. Cook some salmon. Take five bites. No. That isn't filling me up either.
I'm too full of emptiness.
Fight back tears.
Text my husband.
Do some language lessons.
Read a book? Smoke more? Drink more? Eat more? Stream more?
Nothing sticks.
Nothing works.
Nothing helps.
Check the calendar, dreading, for the next therapy appointment.
Flooded with relief I see it is another week away.
But wait! That means I have to hold on for another week. Do they even make that much wine chocolate junk food ice cream cigarettes?
Fuck I want to get high.
I want a Xanax.
I want a shot. Smoke a bowl. Shoot some speed, some H. Drink some tequila. Do a line. Chase the dragon. Something. Anything.
Anything to fill this infinite gaping wound. Its emptiness pushing lumps in my throat. Its emptiness squeezing my insides. Its emptiness filling my eyes.
I don't want to think or feel or remember or dream.
Can't write. Can't concentrate. Can't stop up the hole. Can't cry for fear of never being able to stop.
Forced to remember.
Auditory flashbacks. Was it AC/DC playing at the carnival? Was I being raped to Back in Black?
Olefactory flashbacks. Whisky, piss, vomit, beer, and unwashed for days, dirty sweat. Speed sweat. Smelled like cat piss.
Was that the first time I had a needle in my arm?
Can't remember. Sort of remember. Don't want to remember.
Can't forget.
This is me. So full of emptiness. A gaping hole where my soul should be.
I don't like to be alone. It's easier to be distracted when someone else is around.
I can look outward instead of starting inward. Into the abyss.
It's so full. All the way to the top.
Full of emptiness.
. . .
images license free from Unsplash
This fits my life nowadays. I feel like I'm in a closed dark room alone and lonely.