Low

Chapter 4--Bad Case of Swedish Fish

Logan

Today has slowly gone downhill. That's what it's like. I start out feeling ok but by the afternoon there's absolutely no energy left in me. Actually, there is energy but it's mainly composed of negative instead of positive.

Let me put it like this: Imagine inside you—right in the center of your chest—there's a ball. It's a swirly ball that kind of reminds you of weird magic anime shows typically display. Even better: It's that blue ball that Naruto summons. Well, in the morning, the ball in my chest is blue. It's a raging blue that's bright and sparkly. Full of good energy and ready to take on the day. For most people that ball is going to stay blue all day. Unfortunately, I'm not most people.

The light in my chest starts to slowly fade like a candle that's running out of wax. The worst part is, I can feel it fading. I have to push myself to contain the negative energy that's starting to build up because my ball is turning black. The wires and swirls lose their light until there's absolutely nothing left. But I also have to push myself to keep going.

I run out of energy. Making myself get up and do things is both physically and mentally exhausting. My hands start to shake because I'm containing all of the negativity inside. When my ball reaches the point where it's a blackhole, there's no way I can get it back recharged unless I have one of my usual panic attacks. Or if I hurt myself—but we won't get into that.

Anyways, dancing is the one thing that makes me feel a little better. Instead of draining my battery, it pauses it. Every thread in my body stops fading and simply stays still. That's why I love dancing so much. If I can make it through the day without my ball of energy turning into a blackhole, then I'm ok. Dancing is also much healthier than my panic attacks.

But even on really bad days, dancing doesn't help me. It may prolong my fatigue, but once I head home I'm instantly hit in the chest with a feeling. I'm not sure how to describe how it is. I'm pushing everything behind this dam and hoping that it'll keep at by. But coming home is like realizing all my efforts to keep this old, chipping, and broken dam up has gone to waste. Eventually, when a storm hits, everything comes crashing down.

I'm just such a happy little butterfly, I think to myself sarcastically.

It's dark outside. I've been lying in my bed for about an hour trying to sleep. I can't. Even when I do manage to sleep through the night it feels like I don't get any rest. I'm pretty sure my body runs on coffee in the mornings. Without it, I'd be even more of a mess.

I stand up and head to the kitchen. Sur looks up at me from his bed. His tail wags softly before he puts his head back down.

"I can't sleep boy," I tell him as I pull milk out of my fridge. I check the expiration date—who knows how long this has been here. When I realize it's good, I pour some into a glass.

I walk towards my dog and sit beside him. He yawns in my face giving me his usual dog breath before placing his head on my knee as I scratch his ear. I read my tattoos—hoping it'll put me to sleep as well. Yes, I have a tattoo sleeve. It didn't start out this way. At first it was just a couple small tats, but now every time something happens or I remember something good about my life, I always add on.

My tattoo sleeve isn't a single tattoo. Not like motorcycle riders who have this giant girl drawn into their arm. Or a dragon that spews fire in their hand. Mine is a collection of different things. It starts with my tree before branching out into animals, objects, places, and symbols. Everything I have on my skin has a certain memory or sentiment attached to it. But it all tells a story—my story—start to finish.