Something About Aaron

Standing on the balcony of my new apartment, balancing dangerously on the black metal railing, I hear the sounds of the lively city below. If I had to use one word to describe how I feel, it would have to be invincible. Invincible. This is how I feel at this moment. The revealing, slender, black dress whips around my legs in an enchanting dance, following the rhythm of the wind. As the dress flutters about, I feel as though I can fly. Luckily, there is enough medicine in my system to reassure me that I cannot. Yet the urge to jump tugs at my heart, not because I want to die but because I want to live. A swooping shadow catches my eye, flitting above me in every direction. Seemingly fearless, it swoops by close enough for me to occasionally hear the flap of its wings. If it wasn’t for the faint light of the city below, it would be all but visible, safely disguised by darkness, under the cover of the night. It's as though it has heard my heart’s cry, the heart of a fallen angel no longer whole. One whose wings have been stripped from the flesh, taking away their ability to ever fly again. The bat continues to fly overhead, begging me to follow its lead. My heart says I can because I am invincible, high and mighty, immortal. My mind begs to differ as it is under the influence of prescription drugs that brings reality back into focus. Getting braver, it darts closer than it has dared to since being spotted. I don’t believe it’s out of curiosity but in an act to mock me instead. The urge to jump off becomes almost unbearable, nearly impossible to resist. The need to follow the creature tugs at my heart once more as it continues to taunt me in a way that appears to say, “See? You too, could do this.” “Don’t do it.” A strong, stern voice belonging to Jupitar echoes loudly around me. It's so clear it's as if she had said it while standing next to me instead of inside my mind. I roll my eyes at the clarity of her voice. Clearly, there isn’t enough of the antipsychotic dwindling in my system to block out the voices that reside in my head. In an attempt to be back in the moment, to enjoy the wondrous surroundings, and escape my mind, I focus all my energy on hearing the world around me. I listen closely to the music I have cranked up on an all-time high, the radio tuned to a modern rock station. Not only do I hear the music, but I feel and see it too. It has a calming effect, filling my chest with much-needed air. I am whole, and for one rare moment, I can breathe easily. Colorful lyrics and rhythm zoom past me. Almost like I am in a whole new, beautiful universe, all my own, flying through time and space. It's all MINE. Nobody but me sees, nobody but me hears, nobody but me. This is my high, this is my freedom. My own, personal escape that the medications take away from me. There is a catch though. This escape, this freedom, all comes at a cost. The world as I perceive it, without the aid of medication, is also my worst nightmare. “For every positive, there is a negative to balance things out. That's just the way the world works Almarie.” Jupitar states matter of factly, earning an internal groan of annoyance in return. In response, an image of her resting in a green chair surrounded by shelves of books flashes before my eyes. There are books haphazardly stacked on one of the side tables beside her with more on the floor in front of her. A lonely, dim lamp sits on the side table that's surprisingly book-free, setting the lighting in the picture that has filled my vision. Looking up from her current reading material, Jupitar's condescending eyes seem to meet mine. The way her gaze pierces me from over the brim of her glasses, makes me feel small. It chills me to my core, pronouncing me as nothing more than an ignorant child. “What are you looking at me like that for?” The question is filled with annoyance and escapes past my lips more defensive than intended. And since when does she wear glasses? I wonder, wrinkling my nose at the sight. “Everything can be rationalized in one way or another. You're the one who always wants an explanation for the things that you don't understand or that seem to have no explanation. I was simply making a statement based on your current feelings and worries. Also, the glasses are for reading.” “The glasses are for reading.” I mock. It's beyond aggravating to be unable to have a single private thought. “Why do you feel the need to analyze every moment of my life, every thought? Even then, why comment on it? Why can’t you just stay quiet instead of spewing such mind-numbing nonsense and killing my high?” “Oh, quit with the attitude already Almarie. Every time you have a moment of ecstasy, the fear of what nightmare will show up next slips into your thoughts. Even if it is just for one brief moment. Even if you don't realize it, we do. You know this. Your perception of the world is one of the most spectacular and horrifying realities one could ever imagine. It's honestly quite interesting. Your disorder is one of those things that is difficult to understand. Yes, it's got its consistencies, the textbook classic symptoms. The way it is presented in such a unique way in every afflicted person makes it that much more confusing as well as intriguing. You always yearn to be “normal”, but when stable on medications that keep the balance, you crave another fix of the high. You want it so bad, you procrastinate long enough on getting your prescriptions to go back to those extremes. Even if it means risking the nightmares that become your reality.” “You are not my psychiatrist Jupitar. Stop analyzing me. I don't need this. I'm trying to enjoy one beautiful moment in peace. You're not helping, so just leave me be. You're literally, killing my mood. I don't appreciate you making me second-guess myself. I do not wish to dwell on the negative, dark and gloomy world I often find myself perceiving life to be. Instead, I want to relish in the positive, bright, and beautiful world I have been lucky enough to experience lately. Having only felt the high and seen the beauty. Talking with you is taking away from that! So do me a favor and bug off. Let me enjoy this. Please!” “Don't get pissy with me because you don't like the truth. Being past overdue for your medication refills, you can fall into either of the two main categories your mind tends to exist in. Depression and mania, opposite extremes on a spectrum that is your way of existing by your choosing Almarie.” “My choosing!” I find myself screaming, unable to control the rage any longer. “I didn't choose this! This mindset, this life, this diagnosis!” The words angrily spew from my mouth as I wave my hands around my head. A feeling of defeat washes over me and I drop my arms as my anger swiftly dissipates. My voice falls to a mere whisper. “No Jupitar, I did NOT choose this. Nobody would willingly choose this. If I am stuck with it, I might as well enjoy the perks though, right?” “Don't let it define you Almarie. By refusing to take all the necessary steps in managing your illness, you ARE choosing this.” With that final, soft-spoken remark, Jupitar begins her retreat, sinking back into whatever depths she resides in when she is not present. Before her presence is gone, I feel the essence of her emotions, sadness, and pity. Focusing on the here and now, I revel in the feel of the cool wind on my skin for one moment longer, enjoying the music as the colorful rhythms and lyrics continue to surround me. It's glorious but begins to overstimulate my senses and I can feel every fiber that is my being. Satisfied with this moment, having lingered long enough on the edge of life and death, I jump off the railing back onto the balcony floor, giddy from the dangerous thrill of it all. “Good Girl.” Jack snides after my feet hit solid, safe ground. I ignore his comment, shaking it off before rushing back inside my clean but cluttered apartment to finish preparing myself for a night out. My perception of the world has overstimulated all of my senses, and my skin feels like a tight layer of clothing I can never escape from. Both an excruciatingly painful and pleasurable thing. One touch could wash me with an explosion of awful pain or glorious pleasure. Another person's touch in the right way, no matter the gender, when manic is an experience like no other. In a moment of climax, I swear I can hear angels singing a beautiful chorus that only my ears alone have the privilege to witness. I am definitely in the mood for that kind of pleasure. Grabbing a pair of black platform high heels to add to my look, I consider my outfit complete. Before leaving the safety of my apartment, I take one of the last, little, white pills that rest at the bottom of an orange prescription bottle. A PRN to help calm the anxiety that forever tries to strangle me. Placing the bottle back in its rightful place inside my backpack, my reflection catches my eye. Examining myself, I find that I am pleased with how I appear. Absolutely stunning! Do I really look like that? Is that really me? The questions cross my mind sending anxiety rippling through my skin. I have to calm myself, pushing the anxiety down while I wonder if I truly look like my reflection. The thought that my mind could be playing such tricks on me, chills me to the bone. I look down to see that I am wearing the same fabric as the mirrored me. Staring into my own eyes, I feel unnerved. I watch as the mirrored me lifts her hands to pat at her hair, copying my every move. Everything looks and feels the same as the mirror shows. I mean, as far as I can tell anyway. It's a small reassurance that I honestly look like the figure in the reflective glass. It will have to do. Self-consciously, I thoroughly analyze myself in the mirror for a second time confirming my appearance. Taking a deep breath, I watch as my eyes scan every strand of hair, every inch of my face, every clothing item, in search of any evidence that may deem me crazy. Finding nothing out of place is all the proof I need to assure myself that I am the exact replica of my reflection. Not fully sure of myself, as I had been moments before, I proceed to double-check the makeup I have caked onto my arms and legs, in an attempt to hide the scars that will forever haunt me. I'm confident that the fading marks are covered enough that they will not be noticed without close inspection. Mesmerized by the scars that will forever cover my skin, marks that are only bared, by one who knows the releasing kiss of a blade, causes a strong urge to begin to grow within me. An urge I'm constantly trying to fight, that I long to give into for just one, tiny, moment. “Stop thinking about it, sweetheart. You don’t want to ruin being four months clean.” Kyle’s voice, a soft gentle whisper, echoes throughout my mind. “Easier said than done Kyle. I just wish I had never picked up that blade in the first place.” I wish there wasn't proof of my sins written all over my body, proof of how messed up in the head I am. “They won't look that angry forever dear. I know you wish to have beautiful, flawless skin but believe it or not your skin is beautiful in its own way. The scars you bear show what you have been through, what you have survived. In a way they’re a beautiful portrait of things you have overcome, they mark several stepping stones, chapters, of your life. You should be proud that you had the strength to endure all that you’ve been through, and those scars are just some of the proof.” “I know the scars fade with age, and I do get what you are saying. I just truly hate the fact that they never really go away. I wouldn't mind having just a couple to serve as reminders, proving that I have indeed experienced and gone through everything that has happened in my life. That, and that alone, is the only comfort that can be found within these grotesque scars. Even then, who wants a constant reminder of an everlasting war inside their head, that leaves them clueless on how they have managed to survive this long. I can tell you I sure don’t. Though I’m sure others may find satisfaction in them because, in truth, I deserve them all for everything I am, and for everything I have done. You can say these marks are just the battles I have lost in the war within myself, but as long as I am alive, I have far from lost the war that rages on. You can say that, and any other meaningful, philosophical bullshit you come up with. At the end of the day, I deserve every last mark. Nothing you say will ever change that. If anything, it can serve as a warning label for any who dare try to befriend me. Keep away, she is a whole lotta crazy you don't want to get sucked into. That's what these scars say to any sorry soul who dares see them.” My mind goes fuzzy as I feel Kyle go silent, disappearing somewhere deep within my mind. At his departure, I feel his sadness and pain wash over me for a moment before it too, is gone with him. I stare at my cover-up for just a moment longer before I decide that I am satisfied with it. On that note, I head out the door to wander around the city. I am feeling frisky tonight and moi is going to find her some sexy, willing piece of tail. At this point, I'll take anyone, but I really want to find some delicious masterpiece of a man to truly lose myself in.