Crucified

Not with nails, not to a cross, but I am crucified nonetheless. The little scratch I made with the utility knife is a tardis - much bigger on the inside than on the outside. Inside that little, pathetic cut is myself, stabbing at my arm repetitively, digging out chunks of flesh, screaming. I am treating myself "cruelly," causing pain and suffering. I am hurting myself. I engage in sadistic self-torture because I feel shame and the result is more shame. SHAME on me. Heaped upon me. Burying me with its heaviness. I wish I could dig out of this shame but it is a tardis - much bigger inside.

I wish I had not given the drugs to my therapist. I wish they were on the counter where they have been sitting for months, calling me seductively but quietly, with class and tact. "Eat me, and float for 12 hours, on a couch of soft nothing." Now they are miles away, on his counter, screaming at me with vehement, white trash rage "you fucking BITCH! You left us and now instead of floating with us we sit in the dark, unconsumed, while your FUCKING rage consumes you! SHAME!" Instead I take the psychiatrically condoned anti-psychotic tranquilizer that I won't float upon, rather I will be smothered with. It is oppressive, not fun, which is why I can take it. But FUCK the doctors, I took a non-sanctioned lovely pill I got from a pharmacy from India, fair and square right off the internet. Does that make me a drug addict? Is this a slip? Did I just stab my sobriety in the back? Is it so wrong for one of my selves to take one pill to calm me down, while another one of my selves takes a pill to keep me awake? 

Maybe "crucify" isn't the right word. Maybe "sabotage" is more fitting.

It's been a hard fucking day, people. I dare anyone who has never been sadistically tortured by another to attempt to understand (i.e. crawl into the head of) someone who has been sadistically tortured by another. 

The mind itself is a tardis, transporting its soul to the past to relive, relive, relive. 

Jesus was crucified. For my sins, apparently, and the sins of the bad people of the world, so that we wouldn't have to die. But I want to die. I am sick of crucification and I can't seem to stop the shame and the rage and triggering that gets me to this place. I am dangerous like this, so much more dangerous than when I am simply "depressed." I am alive when I am like this, so much more alive than when I am depressed. I am lethal when I am like this, alive and deadly. I could jump off the cross and save myself, I suppose, but my purpose is a tardis, so big inside that I cannot see it from my vantage point here on the precipice of shame. I crucify myself, so that the little one inside can live without the heaviness of the sins of the bad people of the world. I rage so that I can feel alive, and even if the rage ends in my suicide then at least for awhile I felt alive. I bet right before Jesus died he felt the most alive.