One day I woke up and realized I looked exactly like a goth. I didn’t plan it or anything, it just happened. Apparently this is what I look like.
Silver jewelry of symbolic potency, non conformist nail polish colors. Usually black, the same color as most of my day in day out wardrobe. Extraneous zippers, big boots and witchy wild hair.
So that’s a thing that’s happened. I’m alright with it.
I lost my voice, I can’t think where I left it. It’s been fifteen days now. I assume it’s symptomatic of some description of psychological evolution. That’s how it feels. It’s a pain in the arse and a little scary, but it doesn’t feel wanton. It doesn’t feel so much like a symptom of trauma, as much as an indication of healing.
I certainly want that to be true.
I’ve been ‘away’ quite a bit lately, not entirely myself. Dissociation I believe it’s commonly called. My words are strangers to me, or perhaps more accurately estranged from me. Or I from them. Hell, who knows.
I know it’s me. I recognize what I have written as me. But as often as not it’s a profoundly unfamiliar manifestation of me. It’s quite jarring. Quite unsettling and strange.
Ain’t ptsd a bitch?
But, hey ho. That’s just the way it is. I find ways to be happy.
I was going to title this post, ‘I am batshit crazy, let me count the ways.’
But then I thought, no, that’s rubbish. Why I felt compelled to disclose this unhappy truth, I have no idea. Perhaps it’s just me trying not to take it all so seriously.