Smiling like someone successfully baking cakes, Dr. Bronte says, ‘You should be relieved, it’s so rare to see such clear diagnoses.’ Neither psychosis nor neuroses, it doesn’t feel clear. Borderline, split like a blackjack bet — two suits, same value, no clear winner. Where does that leave me? ‘We can treat it, of course. Though, I worry they won’t take you since you aren’t hurting yourself.’ I think she means physically. I finger my scars. Should I restart? Would that help me get help? ‘Don’t act rashly now.’ But that’s my problem, impulse control and the point where logic lies.
As one might attend unspooled yarn, I try desperately to gather the logic of the world around me. In the same vein, I find myself so often tangled in a knotted skein made of my life’s own twisted purls. Would that I could take my teeth to the problem as my childish self allowing frustrations to force tears in my beleaguered shoelaces. I wish these problems were that simple or physically solvable, but there’s more nonsense every day, everybody adding to the fray, and if I can’t untangle or use it then I’d at least like to avoid it.
I wonder what I’m supposed to be some times. A sin eater? A catalyst? Collateral damage? Is it one of those perception things, a parallax error where life doesn’t line up for us because we see it from different angles and they’ll always be at odds? I wonder what that means I am some times. The glass? The water? The waiter? Is it one of those preconception things, a baked-in behaviour as over cooked as this analogy? I wonder what I should say some times. I am, I am not, I may be? Yes, no, maybe? I wonder?