No, I am a Warrior.
I got the word "Warrior" tattooed over my heart on a whim. One lousy fight over something lousy with a lover and my first instinct is -- what? Is it really just an infatuation with body modification, or is it a seemingly healthy replacement for my screaming but currently duct-taped-silent self-injury urge? It makes me wonder, every time I get a hole punched through some random bit of cartilage or, say, a word that is constantly referred to as the "Scandal song tattoo."
I'm trying to get better. There was a switch that went off - no, I lie. It's been a gradual decent, I think, or kind of like "gradually, and then suddenly." I knew something went wrong when I couldn't write or read, but trudged through it thinking it was one of those typical "blocks." But then I got desperate, got into therapy, and I'm currently trying to work with Zoloft again (to no avail up to now) to hopefully get to a semi-happy medium. See also: finding that creativity channel again, finding energy, finding safety in that which provided me a shelter during the hurricanes of the past 7 or so years.
I don't know what happened, maybe it was the weight of my mother finally falling flat on me, maybe it was the intensity and investment in my current relationship triggering something, maybe it was this and that and this and that. All I know is that I don't feel well, and I am not writing, and I am not reading; I am not well.
But, every time I look into a mirror and see my impulse ink - "Warrior" - I know that somewhere, somewhere inside this mind that's currently so empty and desperate that I begin to think it's eating itself from the inside out for substance, there is something that knows that I am better than this. (I am better than this?) There is something that continues to tell my heart to pump blood, something that tells me to buy a book, something that tells me that this song is beautiful, something that looks out into everything and sees something that is worth running toward and there is something to fight running away from. There is something to fight for.
It's always been a flaw of mine, justifying and imposing drastic change and expecting immediate results. One day at a time.
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You know its so ironic, (everything these days is!) when I read your profile, I thought, my God! Who is this chick? Your writing is like the wings of a butterfly--and there is nothing I could do, and no where I could go to find something so lovely...
And so, here I am, sitting in a fashionable room in Silver Lake, moving my fingers and shuffling my feet. Which shall I do first? Move my fingers. Oh, Yea. My fingers on the keyboard, once a typewriter once a notebook. Its so nice to hear your voice... it is so distinct, I can hear it like a little Kayla brook, more like a river now--here sits Shurtz, with 20 thousand dollars and a bag full of plays... anyone want to gamble?
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