So. I'm back. Hopefully for an extended period of time.
I haven't written poetry in a very long time. I should begin to do that as well, not for anyone's gratification per se, but because I enjoy it. Maybe I should even publish a few (anonymously, of course). I don't know. I'll have to think about it some more.
But, since my last post, and for quite a long time before, I've been on an emotional rollercoaster, the likes of which I have never experienced in all my life. I've become even more of a recluse since I left UWI. I barely talk at all, except to my mom and younger sister. I shut people out (although that may be more subconscious than not).
What's the point of this post, you may ask.
I have no idea. The whole point of this blog is for me to ramble along in an effort to clear my mind of some of the thoughts splashing around therein, silence some of the voices.
I live in Kingston pretty much year-round now, because I'm apparently finishing a 4-year degree in 3 years and so I have to come to school during the summer. (UGH.)
It does, however, its advantages: I'm not at home, and so I don't have to go to church with my heathen self; I'm a lot more mobile than I would have been in Mandeville.
It also has its disadvantages: I'm not at home, so I barely take proper care of myself; my aunt lives near me and seems to believe that we should be joined at the hip for that reason -- although I'm doing my best to disabuse her of that notion.
One of my best days was Labor Day, which I spent with the Creed (I'm sure I've spoken about them before on here) because one of our members was going back to his home country a few days hence.
I'm not able to be around persons for more than, say, 3 hours at best (with a few exceptions) without becoming physically and emotionally drained, but I spent the better part of a whole day with those guys and enjoyed every minute of it. I didn't realize I needed time to be around persons who understood my little idiosyncrasies and worked with them until I had it. Thanks, guys.
That came on the heels of the darkest day I can remember: about two Saturdays before, the urge to seek the Great Perhaps became stronger than it has in months, and I sought out my razor and proceeded to break a promise I made to myself at the age of sixteen that I wouldn't self harm again.
(But then, a friend of mine said to me that we all self harm in some way; it's not always drug abuse or self-mutilation.)
Fifteen neat little slices on my left forearm. They still haven't healed fully. But I look at them, and I remember the Saturday night I tried to subjugate the urge by overshadowing emotional pain with physical and succeeded. I may not win the war, but when I win the battles, it gives me the strength to continue fighting.
I still fear death, in a sense, because I'm not sure what happens after I shed this mortal coil. I think that is the primary reason I haven't committed suicide yet, even though hell knows I've been wobbling more and more on that particular tightrope. Not necessarily the people who care about me, because I know, as I've known for years, that they'll go on without me. As I've had to go on without my uncle, who was a fundamental part of my life.
Am I fundamental to anyone? I highly doubt it.
Ah, there goes that negative self-image.
As I write this, I'm sitting in an almost-empty class ignoring that annoying drone of voices belonging to those happier than I.
It is almost 12:30, I'm reading The Chronicles of Narnia (for the first time. I'm almost ashamed of myself), and I'm...at a fragile sort of peace.
Chará.
King Jaye
