i knew it.
i stand on my tiptoes in borders. the book hits me in the face. the title beats me down, crushes me into the carpet. i can't cry. not here. not now. not ever.
i am standing on the sidelines, on the border of dangerland, insanity. so close, yet so far away.
they will not satisfy me with a diagnosis, with reassurances, rainbow pills to shroud the monsters in my head with fog. they will not placate me with worry, get well cards, sympathetic smiles, whispers behind my back.
now i know why.
it's because i am not real. and if i am not real then neither is my problem, symptoms, "so good to see you with an appetite."
they just don't see me. i am my cream coat, lolly pink smile, hair about to be cut off. i am the me that they have created in their minds. irrelevant, unreal.
i sit outside jamesandaugustredcurrantbackdoorvalleygirl. it blurs. they don't see me. not the guy with the purple scarf holding the plump girl's hand (a wicked hidden part of me asks why does he loves her when she's not a perfect 0?), not the laughing high school girls who think they're cool because their tartan skirts are two inches short of the regulation knee length, not the dad with curly haired twins in the push chair, the elderly couple, my mother walking towards me, "h - where have you been?"
i am invisible. i am not real.
this is the way they want it. this is the way i want it.
(but if am not a poacher of ivory then why does this realisation sting me in a place that i'd rather left unstung?)