Boxes

I took this photo on the way home from therapy today. We were discussing how I have itemised different "Me"s into different compartments and boxes. Me from 1999, me from 1989, me from 2 weeks ago etc. It's like I am completely different person every day, or every hour.

And discussing my facade. People in real life think I am this happy, jovial, silly person. They say this to my face. It really angers me. Hello, I'm in pain. I'm angry, I'm incredibly depressed. I'm violent. I'm lonely. But they can't see because I hide it so well. I don't want to look like my father on the outside, someone to fear.

Inside it's like a bank vault, full of different boxes and safes and things. Incarnations of me jump out at random to dust themselves off, to stretch their legs and have conversations of the past and offer opinions on the present.

We also talked about how 'finely' tuned I am to my environment. How alert I am to percieved dangers. Are they coming to get me? Are they going to kill me? Are they going to hurt me and break me down again? Am I going to fall to pieces today or the next? Are my friends going to abandon me again? Will it be as hard or harder to make friends this time around?

Not only is my hearing and sight on high alert, it appears my smell is too. I hate walking into the house and have these foreign smells wafting about. Yesterday when I came home it smelled like a library. You know that special smell libraries seem to have? Right now, this instant, I smell blood. Old blood. You know, blood that has been sitting around for awhile. Stagnating. Maybe it's coming from miles down the road. I don't know.

Maybe it has something to do with the anxiety I felt when I got inside the house, when I saw one of the scary neighbours was walking behind me and gave me a funny look. Fucking bitch.