The Other Me

I guess it’s that time again, that time I start to feel like something isn’t quite right, like something inside my head is being carried away in a swag over someone’s shoulder, someone shadowy and fast and mischievous, someone who I’ve known for far too long. It’s a “he”, always a “he”, nothing feminine or cute about this guy, he’s there with a baseball bat to beat me into submission when I least expect it.

Sometimes it’s okay, everything seems okay, and then suddenly it’s happening and I feel as if I got grabbed from behind and knocked off my feet in some dark alleyway and all the breath is gone from my lungs. Other times it’s like he flies in and out of my consciousness, flitting about like some kind of Tinkerbell, a Tinkerbell in rags and with sharp teeth, and all I can do is try to push him away, run faster, take a left turn and then a right, trying to get away.

Eventually he always catches up, and then the damage begins. It’s always just a matter of how much damage, not if, but how much. I don’t know how to explain how I feel, it’s like my brain is trying to breathe and it can’t, like someone took two of those paddles they use to jump-start a heart, and they put them on my brain and then suddenly I’m falling like Alice down the rabbit hole, gasping and motionless at the same time.

“RUN”, she says, the me, the old me, the real me, “If you stay healthy it’ll be okay. Do social stuff. Eat well. Read books. Run as fast as you can. Get some sunshine, hug someone.” And then before I know it it’s been 3 beautiful days of sunshine outside while I sit inside and lie in bed and eat and eat and eat. I don’t get dressed, I don’t brush my teeth, I start panicking. I check my phone for messages, turn it off, turn it on, turn it off, throw it at the ground, turn it on, cry and then force myself into something like a bike ride or reading a book or doing something, anything productive that might just have a chance of saving me. It feels so naive having this hope, this hope that maybe if I just do something, if I just keep moving, if I just keep doing, that maybe this time it’ll be okay.

But when it’s not enough, it’s not enough.

He’s there, he’s there and he’s pushing all those tiny black seeds into my brain, seeds that sprout into nails and push out all the good things, I can’t have good things apparently unless I can crush his horrible garden one plant at a time, a garden of wounds that needs my strength to take the nails underfoot and let it pierce right through me. One nail at a time I can pull them all out, whispering to myself “It will be okay, keep going, keep going, keep going” as I bleed and bleed and try not to let anyone else around me see that I walk this nailbed and that I’m hurting and hurting so much, I could bleed out through the floor and still some people would ask “Why?”.

But no matter how much that small-me, that little real-me that feels so suffocated, no matter how much she fights, the other one is always there, the boy-one, though boy makes him sound as if he has some aspect of sweetness, of innocence, but he is not that. He is a man, a rapist, a murderer, a thief, he takes everything from me and I always get up, so bruised, sometimes bleeding, sometimes tying the knots around my own throat and just waiting for someone to shout “no” before he flies away and I crawl out of that pit again, dragging the ropes behind me like chains, ropes that disappear and fade but the marks are always there, the places where he knows to tie them again when I make a mistake.

Right now it feels as if I climbed up so high, I felt invincible, like maybe now it would be okay, maybe that time was over, maybe I would be able to be me for once and that it would stay me and that I could just live my fucking life. And then I see him out of the corner of my eye, and I realise that somehow I walked into some street that I didn’t know was a dead-end and he’s there and he’s there and he’s everywhere I turn.

The worst part is that it feels like he’s laughing, I’m his hostage and he knows it, we both know it, we both know that he is me and I am him and that the girl-me, the woman-me, the person inside my head that desperately wants to live, she knows he is her and that she cannot escape no matter what she does, and all it really is and will ever be is a matter of survival. He knows exactly what will bring me down, exactly what will make things worse: alcohol, not enough sleep, isolation, and makes me crave those things with an intensity so strong I feel as if I cannot control it. The insomnia is the worst, and I cry so hard and deep into my soul, just knowing that every single second I lie awake is him tightening the ropes around the small me, the small but strong me who is so, so scared.

He holds up a baseball bat, and I crouch down on the ground.  I wait for the beating to begin, one eye always looking to the side for a way out. Other eye to the ground, knowing that maybe, maybe, if I just stay very still, I’ll still be alive at the end of it.

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