Tuesday, 5 July 2016

Chemical capture.

Today is less insane. I think they had a meeting after shooting me with a tranquilizer dart in the yard on my way back into the house and August warned them all that I need consistency, support and patience, not endless arbitrary rules, jealousy and infighting.

Actually what I need is sleep, food and booze, I told them with a laugh as I hit the grass face-first. Fuckers didn't even catch me. In my dreams it felt terrific and when I woke up I felt like me again.

I'm actually not a pot-stirrer. Habitually I don't throw dishes. I don't yell. I don't even talk back. If anything I stop talking. I stop reacting, I just plain stop. I turn into a shadow, a statue. I don't do anything. Lochlan says it's possibly more frightening, more maddening, more difficult than plate-throwing, yelling Bridget. At least then she's saying how she feels, what she needs, what she wants.

I realize that but it's too out there, too bratty, too out of control for me and I feel ashamed and immature and awful. But they're all cheering me on, for fucks sakes. Until they want to turn it off, I mean.

So I didn't get any of the beans I grew for dinner, I got medicine and a hot shower and a clean warm bed and it was lights the fuck out and I was gone and I didn't dream until early this morning and then I was up early and I was starving. Still am but coffee seems like the only thing my stomach can handle. My brain loves pills. My body? Not so much.

Onward and upward now, Princess. A voice cuts into my head in the dawning light as I sip the bitter gold. Too much sugar, not enough caffeine, as usual.

I nod. Working on it, Preacher.

Good girl. 

Oh, don't you say it too.