One Really Ought To Be Afraid Of

I Do Not Remember Very Many Things From The Inside Out. I Do Not Remember What It Felt Like To Touch Things, Or How Bathwater Traveled Over My Skin. I Did Not Like To Be Touched, But It Was A Strange Dislike. I Did Not Like To Be Touched Because I Craved It Too Much. I Wanted To Be Held Very Tight So I Would Not Break. Even Now, When People Lean Down To Touch Me, Or Hug Me, Or Put A Hand On My Shoulder, I Hold My Breath. I Turn My Face. I Want To Cry.

The Joy Is An Absurd Yellow Tulip, Popping Up In My Life, Contradicting All The Evidence That Shows It Should Not Be There.

When You Believe That You Are Not Worthwhile In And Of Yourself, In The Back Of Your Mind You Also Begin To Believe That Life Is Not Worthwhile In And Of Itself. It Is Only Worthwhile Insofar As It Relates To Your Crusade. It Is A Kamikaze Mission.

The Fact That You Were Essentially Dead Does Not Register Until You Begin To Come Alive.

I Threw Up Again That Night, Half-afraid That My Eyeballs Would Explode. But It Was, By Far, More Important That I Get Rid Of Dinner. Of Course, By Then, Throwing Up Was The Only Way I Knew How To Deal With Fear. That Paradox Would Begin To Run My Life: To Know That What You Are Doing Is Hurting You, Maybe Killing You, And To Be Afraid Of That Fact--but To Cling To The Idea That This Will Save You, It Will, In The End, Make Things Okay.