Direction

There are three white scars on my left wrist, and two small ones on my right. But they are of the wrong orientation: crosswise.

Orientation. It comes from the word orient, which had originally meant "to point in the direction of heaven." I am from the east, the orient, although that is a politically incorrect term this days. But if where I live is the orient, which is the direction of heaven, then why does it feel like hell?

I am not suicidal, except for that one day twenty-one years ago.

It is not out of some strong religious belief, nor fear of the hereafter. I don't think I will burn in hell, even if I had known earlier that the slashes, to be effective, need to be lengthwise, and not across, because my Father loves me too much. I do not think he would fault me for a chemical imbalance in my brain, or a brief and momentary drowning in darkness. But there will never be any proving that fact, and I have no intentions of putting the lord my God to the test.

It is a different direction now, of course, I know the correct orientation these slashes are supposed to be: straight down, deep.
I suppose the kinowledge will come in handy one day, but like the my knowledge of Adolf Hitler's birth name, only as some bit of trivia one uses to win a game, and as something with a practical, yet gory, purpose.

Or so I hope.

Overload

I'm just so very tired.

I'm having one of those days.

The ones when everyone around you seems to be all talking at the same time, but you can't quite hear them because the sounds are filtered then magnified through a glass tube that goes straight into your ear, bypassing the eardrums to go straight into the nerves, up the back of your head in single metallic file causing synaptic short circuits in your brain and you can see the sparks somewhere in the back of your eyes.

The ones where there seem to be too many people all around, and walking ten meters is an obstacle course and you're just trying to put one foot in front of you in a straight line, but they're in front of you, walking too slow, popping out of nowhere and just getting in your way when you just want to buy one Jamaican patty for lunch, dammit.

The ones where too many people are too sad, too happy, too frustrated, too lonely, too angry, too excited or too panicky and they stand so close to you it gives you vertigo, because this feeling thing is quite new, and you are just getting used to it, and now there's all of a sudden too much and it's not even yours.

I'm dizzy. My head hurts. I'm sweating cold. I just threw up.

I want to just sit in a dark, soundproofed padded cell somewhere and draw pictures on the wall with blood, mustard and someone's expensive lipstick.