story 6/19

broken, but clean.

looking back, i find the priorities interesting.

whenever i would wake in the wee hours of the morning, upset or anxious, then the very first thing i would do was take a shower. i'd clean away the first few layers of my skin, sometimes even scratching it away to get at what was raw underneath. the oil, the sweat, the deadness- i sought to rid myself of it.

it was only after i did that, my hair still damp, that i would address the pain i felt inside. on good nights, i would simply distract myself within my room: listen to music, or speak out to whatever deity was fashionable with me at the time. sometimes i would pace within my limited space, touching on surfaces like the edge of a chair or the surface of a desk, to confirm that i was still alive...

but on bad nights, that wouldn't be sufficient. on the bad nights, i needed to do more, to feel. i would take cds out, and break them in my hands. they weren't brittle, even though they looked reflective. they would only fold clumsily in my hands. but still, there were sharp edges beneath the skin of plastic, and they would leave red welts in the skin of my palm. i would continue doing this until there was a fair amount of fragments scattered across the floor.

and then- curiously- i'd arrange the fragments to form some sort of shape- a cross, perhaps, though i daresay it wasn't because of any religious inclination. it just seemed appropriate. i would carefully arrange the pieces, my fingers and palms still lightly stinging, compelled by some strange energy or enthusiasm that made my muscles tense, and my face eager and alive...

i would then dress in my most ragged attire. i had a pair of jeans that had holes ripped up at the knees (they had been there originally- it was the style- but i had worn them bigger to a ridiculous degree). i wore a pair of karate gi pants beneath them- partly because it was cold, but also partly because- even upset- i did not want to reveal my skin to the world. i wore some sort of t-shirt with a chaotic pattern on it. but- here's the kicker- like the jeans, like the karate gi pants, they all had to be clean. in fact, the cleaner and crisper they were, the better... even, or maybe especially, in moments of anger or hurt, i needed to feel clean.

somehow i maybe secretly wanted to be seen... and in those moments where i was, or when i had to even interact with others, i could feel a sort of snarling sarcastic twitch contorting the edge of my face, and my head always had this odd tilt to it. it was as though i needed to show the world that i was off-kilter, and broken. i wouldn't say anything overt; i wouldn't ask for help, or company, or whatever.

it was always for show. it was always to leave an impression.

more often than not, no one would see me. sometimes i would walk around, not aimlessly, but away from people. i would go to places that were semi-abandoned. there was a small graveyard behind my dorm one year. there were some windows that faced out to it, so there was always this notion that someone could be looking out to see me, to see what i was doing. i think that was always key. it wasn't likely that anyone was up at that hour, or that they would be looking out upon the little graveyard, which was, in truth, pretty nondescript. but the possibility that someone, anyone, could be looking out upon it, and me, was key.

even in the midst of a small snowstorm, with the wind blowing my hair to freezing, and drifts covering the tops of the gravestones- well, perhaps all the better, aesthetically speaking. i would find a tree, find a hard, smooth part of it- and i would start hitting it. not hard- never really hard. it was more to feel the surfaces. the surface was important. it was as though i (or it) were a drum, and the only way to make myself reverberate and hear myself was by striking a surface. the emptiness within me would stir, and for a moment, i would sense- something...

i would keep striking that surface- again, not hard, not blindly, not out of control- there was always the inescapable control- but just enough. sometimes the skin of my knuckles would break, and there might be blood. but not too much. not anything that would be particularly visible the next day, and definitely not something that would require much attention...

i might return after some indeterminate time, careful not to disturb the constellation of cd fragments on the floor... maybe i would lie on the mattress for a time, thoughts cycling through my head, restless. but i would still be clothed, and i would need to maintain this sense of cleanliness.

i wanted, in short, to feel the surface of things. because it was only at the surface, the clean and scoured surface, that i could feel anything at all.