I'm having a little trouble

Trying to get my feelings out of my physical body. I can’t find any medium it feels. Writing, music, drawing, they all incur some deeper disparity from within, and then I’m left with a deeper void that’s still … well, overflowing with this feeling. It’s like digging a well where there is already water.

There is something inside of me, something dying, while something else grows more alive but acrid, and something like a… I don’t think there’s a word for it.

It’s like Instead of like broken will, something like will that is cancerous. Poison. It’s like a weed.

An internal conflict of my body that is being fought down to every fibre and ever cell. Like Someone else inside of me, and it’s me but not. It’s bad and my body knows this…

Like Autoimmunity? Like my body is killing the bad stuff… but it’s also a part of me… and like… I don’t know.

It doesn’t feel right. Sometimes, I just feel physically sick out of nowhere, like someone has punched me in the solar plexus and I can’t breath, I’m nauseous, and dizzy.

And then afterwards like, my body is on crack, I’m in nirvana. I can think and I feel good and I can understand how or why I feel something, and I feel… Like maybe the real me or something like I should be. Maybe how I envision myself as I should be? I think so… Maybe.

But it’s random and up and down as quickly as one ‘episode’ starts another begins. And not always on, off, on, off, on… it’s like  Maybe all day I’m suffering, and then for like 30 minutes, maybe right before I go to sleep I can feel…. Human. I can feel …calm. Like my ‘good side’ has one a small victory.

It’s like sometimes when I’m at work I just kind of shut down and I don’t talk, I don’t work, I don’t eat, I don’t even go to the bathroom. I just am.

I sit in my chair and I THINK I lose some time. Or something like that. Sometimes, I think I’ll sit for a minute and It’ll be 45minutes to 1.5 hours. And sometimes I think it’s been 30 minutes and it’s been 2.

And it’s only when I feel like really fatigued. Really tired, but I can’t bring myself to close my eyes, not even to blink.

 

To put it simple, like I’m paralyzed and I can’t cry out for someone to touch me to comfort me. Like… I’d be chastised for feeling a certain way, even physical or mental anguish.

Sometimes I think others I don’t. When I’m frozen I mean. I just kind of stop. Or I’m swimming in thick, hot water that has to surface. Like, unbearably uncomfortable yet not to the point where I scream.

But I have been yelling. Like, for stress relief, when I get overwhelmed by tasks. Small tasks… Like reprinting a document. It’s a 30 second task. I know this, I do it every day, I’ve done it hundreds of times.

But lately I need to release the tingling feeling in my neck that makes me fear I’ll just break down.

 

I tasting blood when I brush my teeth too hard on accident kind of has… I don’t know. It’s like calming? Nostalgic? I don’t know the word… Soothing, maybe…. Soothing feeling attached to it.

It’s making me realize I’m fucking insane.

 

I think.

 

 

And in the end… When I finally crawl into my coffin rack… and right before I force my eyes shut and smell the chemically treated pillowcase I’ve been issued. Hardly able to be called white…

I realize small things I want and as I slowly list them off…

I want alcohol. I want to sleep. I want someone warm to hold me, and pet my hair and breathe sweet breath on my cheek.

I want to sit somewhere that doesn’t smell of re circulated air, metal, and fuel, or of flour and stale freshwater.

I find a little sliver of peace and I can attempt to sleep… and pray to dream something not of the now… but maybe a simpler time in the past or maybe in the future to come.

 

I tasted the salty wind this morning, when they had the hangar doors open… I saw land and I swear I could taste the hint of burning wood or greenery. Smoke or something.

I kind of hoped I could dream about a bonfire on the beach like old times. We’ll see… I can’t remember her smell… it would be better than the beach this time.

 

V/r,

 

Zachary J. Martin

AZAA, USN

IM-0

martinza@cvn73.navy.mil

USS George Washington (CVN 73)

 J Dial X6810

 

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