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 The Glimpse

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PostSubject: The Glimpse   Wed Jan 14, 2009 6:08 pm

The Glimpse



When someone tells you a story, no matter how good the storyteller is, you can only become so involved, only so intertwined with the story. You can merely imagine how the characters felt. What was going through their minds? You can make an educated guess based on what the storyteller has revealed to you about each one. But you never really know.
What if you could know? What if you could live another person’s memory? Instead of just being told a recollection of the events, what if you could some how enter them? Would being able to feel all the emotions, the cold air of fright touching the back of their necks, sweat stinging their eyes as it drips from their forehead, the hot and piercing pain. Would this give you respect for what that person went through.
If their memories became yours, would you be able to shoot a person point blank in the head again? Even if you had already known death?
Fuck yeah I would.
The glass was hot as it touched my lips. The heat sent a message to my brain to pull it away, but my brain was also telling me that the benefits of making it past the initial pain was worth the injury that would take nothing more than a little Chapstick to fix.
It never ceased to boggle me that my brain could argue with it self. Turning seemingly simple situations into floods of decisions that your brain, which created this mess, had to sort through and choose. It seems that if our brain knew enough to make the decision in the end, why did it bother to present us with all of the possibilities first? It seemed like a very inefficient process to go through, and I hate inefficiency
I inhaled slowly. I always enjoyed letting the smoke caress the roof of my mouth, swirling around giving my cells time to absorb what was needed. I ignored the signals from my brain to choke and held the snow cloud in my lungs until I felt my body complete its transit. I melted into the giant four poster plantation bed. As my head sank into the softness of my down comforter I released my lungs and the taste flooded my mouth.
I watched the smoke swirl past the gothic engravings of my posts, and imagined that on a foggy night, this is what hell looked like.
I began to debate whether or not I should get up and drink the rest of my Chardonnay, or if I should take a hot bath, giving my body time to relax while my mind spun its web of delusions. While my brain was going through the usual unneeded process of making a decision I began to see memories in the smoke. Glimpses of lives gone passed. Memories not taken to into the mist only to appear in my bedroom for me to witness. Watching like a movie you keep falling asleep through, you wake up and catch a little bit of what's going on, but unless you watch the whole thing, you don't really understand the plot, or the motives behind the characters. This is what it was like for me. Seeing only scenes, but never to the same movie. For once I wished that I could see the whole thing...live the whole experience. I wonder if this is how narcoleptics felt. Never really knowing what's going on in the world, always missing the important information.
I decided I would go to the kitchen and fix myself a cup of tea. Normally, I take my liquor straight. I'm a purest at heart I suppose. There is nothing like savoring the flavors of liquor, the warmness in your throat and belly, the harshness it puts in your throat when you speak your first sentence after it has gone down. The taste lingering on your tongue, the one that starts to go away slowly, like a timer telling you when to take another drink. Normally, I take my liquor straight, but today was different; I needed something relaxing I could sip on.
I was looked through my purple suitcase, the one with the gold embroidery on it. Searching for the raspberry bath oil I was certain I had placed in that bag. Although the last time I packed I was in quite a hurry. It wasn't so much packing as tossing items into the bag, like a bank robber in a vault hurrying to make out with the cash.
After a bit of digging I found it in the side pouch of my case. I set it on the counter in the bathroom and turned the water on.

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PostSubject: Re: The Glimpse   Wed Jan 14, 2009 6:08 pm

I jumped as the whistling of my kettle frightened me, and I laughed at my ability to be startled so easily when I wasn't in full alert mode. I half sprinted to the kitchen as the whistling was getting louder and was not a pleasant tone on my ear.
Without thinking I picked up the silver teapot and once again my brain told me that my skin was burning. Only this time I decided that the benefit of the tea did not outweigh the consequences of being burned.
I dropped the teapot, but luckily it landed perfectly upon the flat top stove and only a few drops of the hot liquid were able to escape, evaporating into nothingness on contact with the heat.
I ran my hand under some cold water until the pain ceased and I was satisfied that my hand was not burned.
Grabbing a towel to shield my flesh from the scorching metal, I poured the water into the white teacup my father had given me when I was old enough to drink. I dipped the bag twice and let it set. To pass the time I poured myself a straight shot of brandy, and it had a nice effect mixing with the chemicals already in my system. I felt like was floating through the air wrapped up in the warmest blanket. Cocooned in warmth, flying high above the cold hardwood floor of my kitchen.
My very own kitchen. Arranged the way I wanted it, decorated with the things I wanted. Everything in that kitchen was mine, to use whenever, however I pleased. After so long of surviving off of whatever you managed to scrounge, having your own kitchen with a full fucking fridge was like living in heaven on earth.
I poured a shot into my tea cup. Dipped the bag two more times and took the first sip. Once again burning my lips reminding me about my carmex.
I set the cup down upon on the rim of the bath tub.
The scent of raspberries slowly flooded my nose, sending faint glimpses of taste to my tongue.
I undressed and cautiously placed my foot into the bath tub. I had been burned physically enough times today. Burned emotionally enough for my lifetime. Though I knew I wasn't done being burned either way.
I sank my whole body into the tub, allowing the raspberry to enter my pores, the feel of that mixed with the hot water relaxed my muscles better than any Swedish massage could.
I ran my hand over my body further forcing the oil into my skin, finally reaching my neck.
Have you ever noticed how sensual a neck is? How erotic and beautiful one can be? They are so sensitive, a source for pleasure that can be ever so deadly. A hand on the back of the neck could turn from relaxing muscles to tightening them to the point of temporary paralysis if the right pressure is applied. A kiss can send tingling throughout your body if in the right spot; conveniently that right spot is fatal if bitten. There are spots on a neck that are so soft that not even a babies skin can compare, nerves laying underneath send libido through the roof if caressed properly. A neck can be choked, blocking air to the brain, causing a unique high from oxygen deprivation. Auto-Erotic Asphyxiation, the perfect balance between the dangers and pleasures of a person’s neck.
And so it began, my mind wrapping up within it self. Causing delusions of grandeur.
They called it bi-polar disorder, manic depression. At least that's what they called it at first. It progressed into borderline personality disorder with skitsophrenic qualities and a tendency to rise into a state of mania.
But what the hell did those doctors know about my brain?
Mental health is nothing but perspective.
Like say when you are hallucinating. The doctors, the social leaders, they all call that insanity, but for me that's normal. For me, that's reality. The call it insanity, hallucinations, delusions, illusions. I call it everyday life.
But since not everyone in the world experiences those glimpses, they call me borderline. Their way to classify and categorize society.
But if everyone hallucinated, then the ones who didn't would be abnormal, they would be the insane ones.
Like I said mental health is all a perception, and since I perceive reality the way I do, anyone who doesn't fucking see glimpses, is crazy, insane, mentally unstable, 5150. Now it’s your turn to go to Baywood.

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PostSubject: Re: The Glimpse   Wed Jan 14, 2009 6:09 pm

Fortunately I was never lucky enough to personally spend anytime there. By the time society realized what was going on in my head they had already closed the Looney bin.
When I was kid everyone praised me on having such a vivid imagination. When I was a teen everyone blamed it on the drugs.
When I grew up they blamed it on a chemical imbalance in my head.
They just don't know what they are thinking do they?
I do.
No, mom I wasn't trying to commit suicide. If I was I wouldn't have cut my arms, I would have cut my wrists. But I cut my arm. I just wanted to make sure I was still alive, that's all. Because the only two true emotions in the world are fear and pain.
You can't fake true fear, you can't deny true pain. Everything else is just a falsity. Tricks of the human mind. Love being the biggest falsity of them all. Still, knowing this I still feel love. I still love my parents, my brother, my kids, my family. I would give my own life for them but, I created that love. Just like I crate my happiness, I create my depression.
Fear I can't create. Pain I can't create. So I put a dirty knife to my arm to make sure I still feel the fear, to make sure it still hurts when the blade pieces my skin. To make sure I still bleed. I just need to know sometime that I am still alive because sometimes I feel so outside my body that I'm not sure if I truly am still living, or if I am dead watching someone’s memories.
So I cut my arms, my legs. I dig my fingernails into my palms, bite my lip, pull out my hair, bang my head against the wall, heat up paperclips with lighters and burn my own flesh, purposely run my bath water too hot and jump in, punch mirrors in restaurant bathrooms. The list goes on and on and on. But sometimes you just need that reassurance.
I wasn't trying to commit suicide. I don't want to die. I want to fucking LIVE!
Suicide is too selfish anyway. because no matter who you are, or how lost you have become, there is always someone out there who needs you, someone out there who cares, someone you still need to give something to. If you take your own life you deny them of that.
See, it’s selfish.
So I wasn't trying to commit suicide. But the last time I cut my arms I was pretty damn close.
My best friend was gone, my brother never home, my parents so far out of touch with my life, everyone I cared about had abandoned me.
Not to mention I was sick as all fuck. A heart condition, requiring surgery. So fucking close to death, yet I clinging to life.
The men weren't helping my situation, so demanding, so fucking demanding of my time of my energy. So demanding yet never understanding that I didn't have any energy to give, when it took everything I could muster not to pass out trying to go 10 feet to the bathroom.
Everything became dull and gray. My mind keep going through it cycle of depression to mania and back again. My cycles quickened because I had no strength to control them like I do now.
So I lost and I cut to deep.
"Mom, I think I need to go to the hospital."
"Yes I promise to start seeing Dr. Mason again. I'll make an appointment on Monday I promise."
Never went.
Never wanted the meds again. Never wanted the Depakote again. As if feeling emotions wasn't hard enough as it was. Now they have medications to block me from feeling anything. That's why arms get cut.
A never-ending cycle...you need to take the meds to keep from cutting yourself....meds make me dead....to make sure I'm still alive I cut....they tell me to take the meds.
Self medication, give me a bag of weed.
Potheads aren't psychotic; they are too lazy to be.
I always did better on the drugs; they let my get what was in my mind out, the THC, cocaine was my all time favourite.
Always wanted to try mushrooms. Addicted to hallucinogens I think I might be.
I'm never right about anything. Never make the right decisions. Or maybe I do but I overanalyze them to the point where I think they weren't.
I do that to much. Overanalyze and over think every fucking situation I am in. That's why I am such a quiet person. I am CONSTANTLY thinking, but I NEVER tell anyone what's on my mind. I feel like I am burdening them with my problems, and they truly are my problems, but if something is wrong with you believe me I will be the first person ringing it out of you. I know that talking makes you feel a hundred times better.
Yet I can't talk, it’s a mental block. I get it from my mom, she doesn't tell anyone her problems, but is the shoulder for all of her siblings the family, her parents.
I'm too much like her in that aspect, and I'm like my father with everything else.
Sometime my brain whirls so much it makes me sick to my stomach. There's so many thoughts floating around, swirling among my head that it makes me dizzy and I want to throw up.
This is one of those nights. This has been one of those days. Too much to fucking handle, to much to fucking deal with.
Back in that mental state, feeling the urge to cut.
But I fought it.
I can handle way more. Throw some more at me God you don't have me yet. I'm not breaking today, I'm not snapping. I'll ride it out with the best of them because Fuck it I have no other choice and I'm tired of taking the easy way out of things.
Its time to fight my demons. I'm not shoving the skeletons in the closet anymore because I'm going to bury them before they get a chance to get there. I can't do anything else but survive. I don't want to do anything else but live.
If someone made a movie about my life would anyone want to watch it?
Fuck yeah!
It was about that time I got my ass out of the bathtub, and straight to my bed. Let the dream world deal with me for a while.
I still hadn't remembered the Chapstick.

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PostSubject: Re: The Glimpse   Wed Jan 14, 2009 6:10 pm

From: †«£ădÿRăvêи»Sent: 11/03/2005 02:32
Oh my God, where do you get this stuff Angel? It's so surreal.

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PostSubject: Re: The Glimpse   Wed Jan 14, 2009 6:11 pm

From: †Åиģėł™WdžSent: 11/03/2005 02:39
It's whats going on with my life. Most of it now, some of it is from the past. But still my life. Well the bath oil, suitcase and bed were figments of my imagination. But the rest is true.

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PostSubject: Re: The Glimpse   Wed Jan 14, 2009 6:11 pm

From: †«£ădÿRăvê軆Sent: 12/03/2005 00:27
You're very brave to say such things in public Angel. Braver than most. Thank you for the glimpse into your life. Mental health is indeed nothing more than perspective. Personally, I see depression as nothing more than mere illusion created to give society the 'feel good factor' and grandeur that they are better than the depressed. Forgive me, I'm rambling now, but I can connect with some of that. At least we're not alone in our views I guess.

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PostSubject: Re: The Glimpse   Wed Jan 14, 2009 6:11 pm

From: †Åиģėł™WdžSent: 12/03/2005 02:20
I've decided to turn this post, which I had originally planned it to only be this one single post, into a storyline. We'll see how it goes.

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PostSubject: Re: The Glimpse   Wed Jan 14, 2009 6:12 pm

From: ◦¤†Đa®k£aðyOfVampiŗe§†¤◦Sent: 12/03/2005 17:20
Words just can't be found for what I think of your story hun, its so beyond outstanding. Thank you for sharing your deepest thoughts.

Muahs
Cassie

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