Some things that I was convinced would never happen to me have revealed themselves in my life. I wonder what went wrong. Was it the music, the people, the thrill, the need to feel as though I fit in? The first time I smoked pot, she told me to inhale to my stomach, so I did, and the pipe started to get warmer. She smiled at me, and I liked that smile. It was the smile that told me that I was reborn, that I was a new breed of myself. It was my chance to turn cool.
I tiptoed across the line between good and evil, and I was about to live in a world separate from the one around me. It was like this secret dimension that you could only see if you swallowed something or smoked something, or if you were drunk and looking at the water in the toilet, seeing a reflection of yourself that you had never seen before.
I am convinced that mirrors are liars. I could spend hours in my room, frowning at the crook in my nose or my stomach hanging over my belt. I could apply layer after layer of mascara and smeay on lipstick and pat my face down with powder to conceal my impurities, but it would never seep into my flesh and beautify the ghosts underneath.
I was never healed-- I have never been healed. This is more than a chemical imbalance or a bi-polar disorder or being obsessive compulsive, which is all that doctors see me as. This is a bloody war inside myself that nobody can see if I smile wide enough or bat my eyes. This is a massacre of angels and demons that I carry with me in the pit of my stomach, and I feel their swords and arrows piercing my insides. But I know that if I hold my breath long enough, if I shut my eyes and feel the pill slide down my throat, I will be numb for long enough to ignore them.
At this point, I do not know who is winning. I do not know the casualty count. Sometimes I can feel the bodies of dead angels evaporating into the air all around me, and I seem them all bloodied and bruised and I know who is in the lead. I know who is victorious that day, and I drown out that sick realization in whiskey or sex, or I throw money at someone and say, "Give it to me now. I know you have it."
I think that the only thing I have right now is music. Music will never cut you in half. It will never rip your heart out of your chest and shove it back in backwards. When I sit behind the drums, I am sitting on a throne. I am finally the queen of my own subconscious and the battle halts in my wake. They put down their weapons, and my body is at peace. But when I put down the drumsticks and slide up into the seclusion of my room, the war rages on.
Am I going to die like this?