my scars, my life
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2005-01-05 12:26:13 (UTC)

excerpt from my autobiography...

I tried for years to find a hiding place where nobody
would look, where I knew for sure, for absolute certain
that I was safe, and I found it. I found a time to hide in
instead of a place, I found the perfect time where I could
slip out of this body and into space.

That part of the day when sleep pulls us from our bodies,
the in-between world where gravity becomes less of a
weighty issue, and we float parallel to ourselves, just a
few inches from our flesh, hover over our bed, warm
despite no longer being in the confines of our quilt. Eyes
still shut to ensure the feeling lasts a bit longer, we
know if we open our eyes at this point, our souls would
snap back into place and the hovering warmth would stop.

Sleep often follows quickly, although these days I am
learning to have more control over the length and
intensity of these out of body experiences. The trick I
have found is to not think directly about it. Like seeing
a ghost, out of the corner of your eye, or noticing an
angel; the apparition rarely survives a full on stare.
Likewise, a sideways thought, a round about recognition of
the in between state then relish in the warmth without
debating too much on its cause, this is how I do it.

Sleep should be a welcome respite from the world. Although
save the inbetweeny the transition from awake to asleep,
this is not really the case. I have tried in the past to
make a dream diary, to write down the dreams that I have
had in an attempt to make sense of them. This caused me to
become even more confused and wary of the psychological
meanings my mind is trying to make me aware of. Perhaps it
is better left unexamined.

The dreams I have lived in I think of sometimes as a
gateway to another world. Perhaps like a glimpse of
ourselves, living out our lives in other dimensions, like
a veil or a stage set, we carry out or tasks as the other
people in our dreams, the lines and borders between this
reality and theirs become blurred and run together like
wet paint, bleeding into each other, and overlapping.

I have little control of my dreams or the people in them.
I was told that we are the only people in our dreams, and
that each one is a part of us and symbolises a significant
aspect of our personalities. I think it could be true. I
also think dreams are sometimes like grainy reels of film,
of things we'd rather forget, but are forced to watch over
and over again. Perhaps after reliving all the things in
my life I’d rather forget you'd think I would have become
somehow desensitised to it, or the bad feelings would
dissipate and I would wake relatively unscathed from the
test of endurance, the horror film marathon staring me?
Unfortunately this is not the case. Each rerun of the
shaky truth becomes a more clear and vivid recollection,
the characters on the tape coming away from their backing,
peeling themselves off and filling up with flesh and
blood, turning to me and incorporating me into the scene,
each moment relived is a moment best forgotten.

The last few days have been a major ordeal. The fact that
I Have begun to lose control over the secrets that I had
even from myself has left me fragile and unable to see too
far into the future. The idea of suicide seems to brash to
consider, but the idea of slipping away in the night, so
it isn’t my fault seems too tempting to dwell on.

The thoughts that have surfaced have disturbed and
intrigued me. What do I do with this new information? The
fear that I have been feeling has been magnified by the
physical symptoms that have manifested them selves along
side it. I am drowning. I am drowning.

I know people are trying to let themselves into my little
world, but without the key this is a near impossible task.
I have yet to find the key to my own mind, but I try to
reassure people that as soon as I do I will be making
copies, I don’t want to be alone in there for much longer.

The vastness of the corridors and rooms that lead from
corridors that lead from atriums, stairwells and foyers,
the streets and houses and shopping malls of my mind are
easy to get lost in, and frequently I do. I feel the pied
piper pull of my mind, drawing me into the little safe
houses and dens, the quiet places without fighting.

I can slip further and further into these places, this
time, this perfect hiding place and nobody thinks to look.
From here I can look on the wall and select the perfect
mask to wear out, I can choose the heavy opaque visor that
shields my desperately thin skin from the world. That
thick wooden mask that can take anything thrown at it.

Sometimes though, I cant get into my hiding places, the
doors are locked, the streets are closed, no mater which
way I run around and around the path is blocked. Days like
these I am forced to wear the wrong mask, one which
doesn’t fit right, or worse wear none at all.