Trapped in my Skin

It’s mid-afternoon and here I am again, having a haphazardly mixed vodka cranberry. That bad. I’d drink straight vodka if I could tolerate the taste, but it really is not good so yeah. Besides, I have a load of laundry I need to tend to sometime later when the dryer is freed up from another separate load. Alcohol’s not kicking in yet, probably because I had a protein bar earlier. Oh well. Should I start calling this blog intoxicated instead of caffeinated now?

The wildfire smoke is yet another layer in this prison I am in. First and most formidable is my own skin. How can I escape that? I can never, anywhere I go or end up in. Under the apathetic façade, I’m screaming inside. I can feel the struggle right on my skin; that tingling brought about by the restlessness, the need to move, to go wild, to break free. I’m listening to my sad playlist, desperately trying to tame that wildness into apathetic resignation. I know I can wreak so much havoc once let loose; I still have a smidgen of sanity left to try and keep from bursting at the seams.

I hate this. I hate feeling helpless. I hate feeling like a friggin’ puppet. I keep hearing and reading that there is always, always a choice somewhere in every situation. I’m looking and looking, but I still can’t see any that I could live with. Or is that it, am I just supposed to look for the lesser evil somewhere, just trade up one thing for another? Like, peace for a piece of my soul. Or what’s left of it anyway. Is that it? Is that the secret of life?

I have always felt like a spectator in my own life. Examining my memories, I’ve always seen things from a literally detached perspective. Like in a movie when I’m supposed to be looking out from the actor’s eyes, but when I look in, I see it from a camera lens taken from an angle instead. Does that make sense? No? It doesn’t make sense to me either. But that’s the truth of it, hell knows why. It’s like I’m not wholly inside my body, but just barely tethered like a balloon bobbing in the breeze.

I don’t know if I feel too much, or too little. I don’t know the distinction anymore. Is that supposed to scare me?

My demons are eating me alive. And I’m not doing anything to stop it. Slipping into this dark cocoon is as familiar as pulling on your rattiest, most comfortable sweater. You know it doesn’t look good, but hell, does it feel good.