How Am I?

I sit on a tortured fake-leather-crinkled-sofa-of-beauty and I breathe in and out and in and out with vast rapidity. Becuase I am hyperventilating. I do that sometimes after midnight, like a strange and unpleasnt sort of mint (the hyperventilating, not me...). And the deconstruction of my very self is comforting. The tearing sound of the suction of the tentacle-like end of a hair suckering out of my scalp. It is all very much in keeping with my rather flesh-related dreams of late - a cigarette peeling back its brown paper to reveal flesh-beneath-skin, muscle and red and the glistening nature of the uncovered. And then the pain, first a periphery-issue, becomes a punishment for my lack of control, and cartwheels into ever increasing circles of crossness at myself and self-inflicted pain beyond the bounds of the pleasant. From just above my forehead, the hairs like little golden threads with sharp edges, cutting through my scalp as I pull. And the alarming thing is that this image appeals to me. In a way quite unlike the way I would react to the idea of, say, stubbing my toe. Which would be horrible. There is something very different about a dull pain such as that and the sharp pain of pulling my hair out - something I occassionally attempt to convince myself that I can control. The fact is, though, that I cannot control it. That even thinking about it makes my heart thud and thump and scream in a heartlike fashion - becuase I am seemingly helplessly a victim to my own hands, which now like the hypocrites they are type this about their own treachery. The point they might make if they had brains is this: the brain and not the hands dictate the hands. But what part of my brain can possibly dictate one thing while another part exclaims (silently) 'no no no no'? This reminds me of the Nietzschean idea of warring wills (yes, I know Nietzsche did not think of it first - but I know it from him). At the moment the wrong will is winning: The Will to Self-Destruction. What needs to win is The Will To Power (Over Myself). I think perhaps that was what Nietzsche was suggesting anyway: self-control. And why I have been so attracted to his philosophy. The philosophy of The Strong-Minded and The Brave. Becuase I feel that I am Weak-Minded and Cowardly, and thus need to redress the balance. Not a very delightful self-analysis, but I always was absurdly hard on myself (this achieving nothing except occassionaly fits of tears as I give way beneath the pressure of my own self-consciousness). And this is how I feel tonight. Overwhelmed and alone. This despite the fact that I am actually in the same room as another person. This other person is not a trichotillomaniac and exclaims, helplessly, 'What can I do?' when I exclaim about my hyperventilation and suchlike. All very well-meaning and unhelpful. I know I know - the only person who can help me is me. But sometimes I rather to wish that I could simply collapse in tears and wait for someone else, someone stronger and more sensible than I am, to save me. Who doesn't feel like that sometimes. The point is - when finding oneself in these situations, one must must must find the rescources somewhere to become one's own parent, friend, lover, etc etc. One simply must. Or one goes under. Which wouldn't do at all.