“If this clip was me, there would be a lot of screaming”.
The clip is of wringing hands being grabbed, and now I’m thinking about if it were me. (OhGodNo) Cold flame rolls through my chest in a wave like when you shoot the Salazar head in the shooting gallery in RE4 (and) I’m imagining someone grabbing my hands in a corridor before I can help it. I headbutt them.
No, I’m too weak, it wouldn’t work! I mentally scribble out, feverishly start again, engaged in a plan (I have a plan for everything awful, for impending kidnap and rape and everything and I doubt they’ll work and)- I plan that I would bite, like the man who I cannot spell the name of in the Watchmen film, I would bite and as hard as I could because I feel like my hands are a small world of claustrophobia that must not ever (ever ever ever ever ever) be held or grabbed like that.
I calm, slightly, as I frantically type. Pause, calm some more. Write this sentence, calm more, but still with smouldering embers in me. (I’ve always liked embers but not now) I remember a writing of someone’s, about how “artists are for keeping the sane sane, and keeping the insane calm”. Back then in the time that time forgot of a few months ago, I just thought it was the pretentious meaninglessness of a thoughtless person striving to produce something profound with concepts that stretch too far for meaning.
Now, I realize that it’s an embodiment of the ideas behind the threat of liquid calm in white institutional syringes, (the kind of calm where you let them unbutton your shirt or remove your pants or restrain you, the kind you hate later) a passive encouragement for a stranger to try and calm my flapping hands with awful heat and dryness. Because I’m supposed to be calm. I’m not supposed to dash around and climb things and jump off things and flap (or rock, is rocking too not-calm, too insane?) or do any of the things I can’t help sometimes.
I twitch in my bed, and move my feet up and down as fast as I can, heels resting on the mattress. I don’t want to be (keep the insane) calm. I try to think about making people stop trying to forcibly make me calm if they try, but my mind just slides into please I’m calm I can’t help it please don’t hurt me with how warm and uncomfortable and stronger and bigger and less brittle you are please it hurts I’m calm inside I promise I promise.
I’m not calm. Thinking about people who would try to make me be calm, or even want me to be calm, makes me frantic. But I know all of this twitchy urge to defend myself would just slip from my weak muscles, if I needed it, and then I’d just be scared and (please, can’t you see I’m) afraid. But not calm. I can never be calm when you want me to be.