My body grows cold and I lose feeling in all of my extremities. No, I am not dying, though I feel as though maybe I should be. The last time I was this numb I was, truly and unforgivably, dead. As in - no pulse. As in - on the other side of life and laughter and breathing and bleeding and hoping and praying and...whatever else we're supposed to do while the heart beats proud in our chest cavity. Whatever, I was dead. Blissfully numb in the arms of someone in the afterlife.
I drive down the road, 60 degrees outside and sunny, if I'm lucky. It's April but my emotions still say January. Cold. Lifeless. I try to rummage up some feeling in myself to enjoy the buds falling and billowing on pretty Spring air. I imagine England looks rather lovely, albeit slightly wet, right at this moment in time. Indianapolis is not a fucking picnic. Truth? I hate it here. I always have. The only thing I enjoyed as a kid was watching the airplanes take off and thinking to myself "...someday I'm gonna travel everywhere..." but...you can't watch the planes take off in the back of some one's truck anymore. Thanks Osama, you fucking dead prick. I hope you're burning in hell just for that. What a dick move.
Back to the present - I'm dead, I think. No, seriously, I think I've died. I think this nightly bottle of wine is pouring down the gullet of a corpse. They say people with mental illness are more prone to substance abuse. I think people with mental illness are just eccentric geniuses who are driven to drink by the stupid fucks who come up with that shit. What am I a genius in? Hell if I know. Sarcasm, perhaps.
My body literally grows fucking numb. Nothing feels real. I am a dream within a dream. They call it: Dissociation. Basically, it means I have checked the fuck out. Do you think I say fuck a lot? You will soon. My mind, being overridden with anxiety, emotional pain, angst, what-the-fuck-ever, decides "No, you're in time out. I'm taking away all of your senses. Go sit with your new friend amnesia."
I hate amnesia. I can't even remember what you said five minutes ago while dissociated. I can't remember my SSN, my name, my favourite colour, my mother's maiden name, if I forget a password, I'm basically fucked and have to send in a blood sample to prove who I am so I can check my fucking EMAIL. Shitty, right? It strips me of everything but the flesh-suit that I wear on my bones. Which I also hate. Mostly because it's decided to lose all feeling. You could hit me with a searing hot skillet on my inner thigh and I'd probably just ask you what you're cooking because, gee, I'm American and the scent of any fatty carcass cooking must mean delicious food is on it's merry way. Yippee!