I scare myself | Scully's Blog

Since I started a therapy. 

I realized how much I have buried deep down inside, and since how long I've done it so, sometimes more than twenty years ago. When I talked to the nurse, before she decided whether I needed an appointment with a psychiatrist, I just had that deaf pain I have in the stomach when things go wrong in daily life, but nothing more. I felt nothing, I was cold, talking about my rape, about all the nasty things that have happened to me all along my life. What I've become. Control. Don't touch. I don't even lie about it. Once I was at a sort of soiree, and a guy asked me if I wanted to go at his house, with my partner, and I said "I don't like people". He looked surprised, even shocked. But then he said ok. Maybe I should've been more precised, I don't like hypocrites, but most of people are, consciously I mean. I'm socially mostly inept, although I speak well, and I'm kind of adaptable to situations, I never feel at my place, social codes bother me, because I see what's behind, and it makes me feel sick. I'm emotionally... I don't know exacerbated inside, externally close to clinical death. That's what my partner tells me, to laugh "quieter than you, it's clinically dead". But in my head, it's a rush, it never stops, and it's 10000000000... times richer that most of what I see everywhere around me. It's a magic world, a just reality, a musical theater, Narnia with the right angle, X-Files in 3D, a place where everyone is useful and accepted like they are, rationally creating less pressure on people, and so logically less violence. 

Also, it's the therapy isn't working with me, it's like I can't trust what I'm told, they don't get that I need the "why", and not the "how" to get better. Maybe it can cure me. Maybe not. I want to die some days, I think if I had a gun, I'd use it. If I'm still able to think, that means I'd probably won't do it, but who knows, one day very down. I don't have a gun. So I fly to the endless horizon, a free fly to anywhere you want. Rum and coca-cola can't do that to me. But vodka orange does. And I'm under meds. The kind that gets a higher rates with months. A shark coal passing by your window in the moonlit, snow in July, Chr-is-topher, a bee with a pink and blue pajama, never less, never more than what you need. 

I see no future. That's what scares me. My psychiatrist always wants me to tell what is now, what I feel now, how is everyday life. But it's not like that for me, it's before, now, and after, and later. It works all together. I can't seperate. I don't wish bad to people. I wish them to let me live my life the way I want. But it's something impossible in that world. I must have a normal job, lead a normal life, normal hours, it's not me. That's what gets me depressed. I can't be myself. I think that's what mostly depresses me. My past is heavy, but I'm working on it, no, it's my future, the future, that worries me. No therapy can make me see that world differently. Or it means therapy is only made to make of me someone else. Something I cannot accept. No way. Never. 

Maybe I think too much. That compensates that world empty of thoughts, and heart IMHO, and full of wrecked moves and acts. Could spinning plates be more appeasing. It should be a gift to be different, to bring another view, another talent, another anything. it is to me. It's not in that world. We're good soldiers, aren't we? 

I was advised to write what I feel in such moments, not by my psychiatrist, or psychologist, or any doctor, but that guy at the drugstore who sells drugs and who's in therapy too. I have pictures in mind, that's how I think, visually. I see the Earth. I see people, my partner, his mother, his mother's house where I must go in two days. I see Christopher. I see the phone I should use but won't. I see Gillian. I think about her last project in South Africa. It's an idea I've had in mind for many years. And she can do it that's great. I think about the gun I could have in the drawer in the kitchen. I'd use it left-handed, but it's a right-handed one. I wonder what the result would be. I think about my friends online who're not all friends. I think about October, 11, that I'm the worse cunt in the wolrd. I think I love Nirvana i'm listening to. I think my partner hasn't called or left a message, he musn't love me. He never touches me. he's not  like that he says. He was. I think I could trust him more, but I'm not totally nuts. I think of the dream I had with Hugh Laurie, we drank alcohol at a table, just in front of a supermarket the way you can see it at the mall. I think no one ever understands you, and you never understand anyone. I think we're all alone. I think people are mostly cunts. I think I'll never get in touch with people I'd feel good with and have common goals with. I think I'm very emotional, and too objective for it, it makes me unbalanced at times. I love pictures, I love to think in pictures. I think in pictures. I think in pictures. I see my grand-mother and my grand-father in the garage, when I was fifteen. I'm a lefty like my father right. I have his chin, oh my god she's got his chin. Yes she looks like him, he's his father after all. He's my father, who's my father. The lefty. The blond with blue eyes. The lefty. I hate red. I love red. All apologies. Vodka orange for a psy flight. House can see music. I'm not a real J of the Myers-Briggs. I'd be ready to test very dangerous stuff. Cigarette. I want to smoke. Am I nuts? I haven't smoked in four years. Four years, the age I was when I saw you on the street, the lefty, it was you. Call me, call me, call me. Green, blue, orange. Vodka. Blow my head. Truth.