of-bitemarks-and-bruises-blog

[of-bitemarks-and-bruises-blog]

Rusted bucket - a simple concept "Buckets overflow with water, people are the same with their emotions. It collects, gradually the level rising to the very brim, where people find themselves tittering at the edge. Some people they are lucky enough to have that one person who empties their buckets, pouring the water into the ground. With others the water begins to overflow and trickle down the side, sometimes even gushing, like a waterfall. There might be times when the water manages to level out, till more rain comes and it begins to pour once more. Other times it just keeps going in a contentious gush of water. Till rust forms and consumes the bucket, and it is soon enough deemed an undesirable bucket." "To compare people and see them as objects so easily, is this because you see yourself as one?" The therapist's pen now rests, the room silent, with the question hanging in the air and tattooing itself inside my brain and on my scarred flesh. Which is hidden from the prying eyes of the man across from me, underneath the old, worn and somewhat unraveling dark grey sweater. "Doesn't everyone? Don't they look into the mirror, their eyes zeroing in on every imperfection as they tear and rip themselves up about inside. While they conceive various ideas to hide their imperfection, always looking on the outside of the bucket to see if it's deemed 'likable', without ever looking to see the content of the buck inside. Some people are filled with water, with only a few impurities here and there, with the scent of honey, while others are full of black acidic sludge that smells of sewage." More scribbling on the note pad that rests on their knees, there isn't a tape recorder anywhere to record my voice. As the idea of someone hearing my raspy voice sent nervous chills down my spine, and preventing me from speaking. While the thought of leaving a trace of my existence anywhere filled me with a crushing fear, as screams would begin to rise around me and the darkness began to creep up the walls. "Your avoiding the question, please answer." Pushy, always so pushy, her voice a drill inside my mind, as my fists start to tighten. As my smooth nails dig deep into my palm and reopen their wounds as the bitting pain that demands to be felt. Just like her, it seems she is everywhere, tainting everything with the black acidic alive that flows past her brim and sears holes into the ground below. Even now that; the sharp voice of the therapist tears through that remembrance of the past, that belonged to someone else. "You were having another, episode, were you not?" Always questioning, never accepting, a harden cement wall that merely spits out empty and blank questions that will earn him his pay at the end of the week. Without ever truly caring about the people they come and go, who sit on his pure white, overstuffed sofa. And the way he says that word episode, it has caution tape draped around, it's something twisted and turned into something shameful instead of the residue of a damaged bucket attempting to cope. "No, I was simply thinking of my answer, and have come to the conclusion that I'm a rusty bucket in a dead field, abandoned and forgotten about." A lie and an glimpse into the trickles that run down my side, wondering if he would peer deeper, his cement breaking to reveal a person inside. It doesn't work, instead I get, "And what about people who truly love themselves?" Loving oneself, I can't image that being true, "You have people who show their insecurities and then you have those who cover them up, pretending they don't, the ones who truly love themselves are lying to themselves or are mental. But at the same time I don't even believe that, I like to image that people can truly learn to care for themselves. The idea is like a baby rosebud, so pure and beautiful, simple with its gentle, red color. I hope for a gentle little bud, but I fear that it won't ever bloom." I can see her now, sitting in that small corner of the coffee shop, I hope she finds her baby rose, more than anyone. "It seems you like to compare emotions to objects does that make it more tangible and easier for you to understand. Since you have told me yourself, in past meetings, that you find your emotions difficult to comprehend." Yes, emotions are always easier to peer at, like water running down the window, rather than standing in the rain letting it seep through my clothing. "It seems our time is up, see you again next Wednesday." I'm already standing before the last words leave his mouth, as I stuff my hand into my pocket awkwardly, my thumbs jutting out as I slouch. It something that makes me feel smaller, like I could vanish at any moment, one of the few feelings I crave. As I rush out the open door, and into the hallways. And as I walk on the spongy gray carpet towards the stairs, I can see it, that lonely rusted bucket sitting in the dead and open field, the trees falling victim to rot and the flowers are black, and crumbling in the dry breeze. While I realize that the dead field is the world around me, as the people around me fall away and the hope that remains sparkling inside of me grows just a little dimmer. As that field grows and I can no longer peer past it's black edges to see the rosebuds, as I'm left with the black acidic sludge within me that killed the field around me. --- What are your thoughts on this? Please I would like to discuss this with someone.