The voices

I can hear the voices talking behind me. But they're too quiet for me to understand what they're saying. All I hear is the occasional whisper. That sound you know is human, but is unintelligible. Trouble is, there isn't anyone behind me. I'm alone. Maybe I'm hearing things because it is 4:00 am and I have yet to get any sleep. Maybe I'm just going completely crazy.

I should have taken the Seroquel hours ago. Now I don't know if I should take it at all. I have this urge to puncture my skin. To make an animalistic type scar. The pattern of teeth, or a deep claw scratch. Not sure where this came from. The more I think about it, the more I want to do it. Self-inflicted scarification. Wounds to show the world that I don't quite feel human. Maybe I'm not human.

A defect. As if somehow something got fucked up in the womb. Don't think my mother was ever a drinker or a smoker or drug user. Maybe it's just bad genetics. Can I rip my DNA out and start over? Be injected with complete strands, good DNA? Ones that will develop me into a normal person. Ones that can fill in the gaps in my brain where I lose track of time, thoughts and memories.

Maybe that's the problem. There are holes in my brain. Unseen on x-rays and MRI's. I've had both. Not recently, but in my lifetime. No one ever said anything was wrong. Maybe that hole in my head they found when I passed out in 5th grade is the cause. Maybe a part of my brain leaked out. They said it wasn't a result of the fall. It was an old wound. Still have no clue how it got there but they stitched me up and supposedly I was all better.

All better. Now there's an insurmountable task...making someone all better. Aren't we all wounded? Once something happens to us, doesn't it stain the fabric of our lives permanently? Some stains never come out. Red kool-aid on white carpet doesn't. Waterproof red ink doesn't either. Spill that on the carpet & couch and it looks like someone was murdered in your living room. Just need to draw the chalk outline of a body.

What is all better anyway? Isn't that striving for unreachable perfection? No one's perfect. That's what my T keeps telling. I don't believe her. I have to be perfect. But I can't be because I'm defective. That clashes I know. Can't find that middle ground that I'm supposed to be seeing in green. It's all in my head.

I'm in my head today. The #1 most dangerous place for me to be. There's confusion, turmoil. It's not right. I want to keep hitting my head, like you'd hit a tv to get the reception to come in more clearly. Knock things back into place. It's so disorganized. My brain, my life, my desk, my closet, everything. How can people function when nothing is how or where it's supposed to be?

Everything has a place, an order. Pencils, shoes, pills, the phone, that hairband, those books, the harmful thoughts, the desire to put it all away. Throw it away and start from scratch. Can't afford to do that. Can't get rid of the physical or mental trash. But it's not trash. It's my stuff. I don't keep trash. I'm constantly throwing things away. I hate clutter. My T would tell me I have a lot of emotional trash to get rid of. Ha. Maybe I do.