Invalid

Invalid, I am one;
Invalid, I am feeling so.

I came crashing down, again, in a not-so-deliberately violent fashion, like I seem to, though there are casualities all the same.  Tragic and tame.  Conscious and clumsy.  Flying and frail.  They told me they'd have to give me sutures as I bled on my hands and my chest and my limbs, clinging to my skin, feeling bruises swell, feeling my heart slow beneath my sundress.  Things seem so easy and light sometimes and then they're not.  I feel like God is trying to shake me awake.  Lindsay, FEEL something.  Must I make you bleed to make you care about anything?

I don't want to not feel things, but I'm becoming calloused.  I feel like the natural flow of life is corrupted and barracaded; not a single trickle has squeezed by these fallen rocks onto my dry tongue.  I am cracked and cracking.  I can't help but think, "Man, shit is gettin' real."  My body is broken.  My heart is broken.  Every attempt at a restart sends me instantly back to GO with less and less energy.  I feel out of touch with my heart and my soul.  This town is a ghost town because I feel like a ghost.

I'm trying to focus beyond now, when it starts to get good, but that terrifies me too.  I'm not ready to move away from here.  I'm not.  I want to stay because I want my life.  But my life isn't here, and it's nowhere.  I am truly hurting in every facet of life.  I wish I believed recovery was close, but I think this is something I sit with until I really break.  And maybe, then, I see the light.  Maybe when they cut these stiches out, I'll feel something real.  Maybe love will be enough.  Maybe I'll just know something besides this regret sagging in my soul.