today i found out about a friend i have spoken to in a few year's death. this has shaken me up a bit, and honestly i won't claim it's because we were close or anything, we weren't. it's because i remember watching her in and out of hospital, frustratedly urging her to get better. urging her in my mind to stop self-harm and to see the cycles in her behaviour, my younger self lacked compassion for her situation i'll be honest.
recently what with being a psych ward yo-yo myself i had thought of her and suddenly understood a lot more than i thought i had previously. hearing the news of her death stole the breath from my lungs, it's tragic it really is. the only refuge for those left behind in the wake of suicide is that at least they are now in peace.
i remember sharing phone calls with her when i was younger, we'd planned to meet up. we spoke frequently before both going separate ways. i was always frightened that my behaviours might influence her and this is something i will carry with me even though we hadn't spoken for years.
her death not only upsets me, but confirms thoughts in my mind that i am doomed. every time someone kills themselves i compare myself to them, what is different between us? what lead this person to suicide? why am i not dead? it's not a healthy thought process i guess and it's somewhat obsessive with the amount of time i will dedicate trying differentiate between them and me.
selfish or not, in my head a death translates to 'what does this mean for me?' and i am genuinely confused.
anywho, being confused i rang my "treatment team", treatment team in inverted commas because i'm not sure how much they treat or what exactly they are treating. my care coordinator wasn't in today so instead i was passed to the duty worker (for those that don't know, each day there's an appointed clinical-ish person for dealing with enquiries, crises etcetera). usually the duty will have a chat with me and steer me to 'safety planning' *vomits* (safety planning is essentially making plans to not kill yourself).
today when they answered and i very briefly explained what i was confused about, duty put me on hold to read my notes and then said 'i don't want to engage in conversation about this over phone', something about him wanting to get the correct context. he invited me in for an appointment to discuss possibly being referred to the crisis resolution & home treatment team. he thanked me for agreeing to come in, it made it easier for them. CRHT (Can't Really Help Team) are essentially a bunch of nurses who wander round in pairs visiting people in their homes, medicating them, helping practically e.g. buying food, bringing meds. their purpose is to prevent hospital admission, but also to manage acutely high risk patients in a way more specialist than what regular mental health teams are able to do.
i'm convinced they enjoy the job because the notable time spent travelling between patients means they have an excuse to leave very soon after they get there.
"hi, how are you?"
"terrible."
"are you going out?"
"no, too depressed."
"oh excellent! that means you're less likely to kill yourself then! byeeeeee!"
some of the staff are very friendly and compassionate, others clearly feel their time could be better spent elsewhere.
any who, so i got to the MENTAL HEALTH CENTRE which is exactly what it sounds like. a drab, grey, foul smelling building that houses pretty much every team you can think of in the east side of the city. it always smells like the patients with extremely poor hygiene. i told the receptionist i was there to see duty and they told me to go sit down in the waiting room, which may i add has every kind of fucking boring magazine marketed. Pottery Weekly anyone, Middle-aged Housewives Monthly? no? how about Tractors on a Tuesday? (these aren't real, i just made them up - accurate though).
i hear the receptionist say 'the AMHP is here' (Approved Mental Health Practitioner - someone specially trained in the mental health act, with the power to be like 'yup you're sectionable kiddo'). HA, HA, HA. WHAT. what on earth have i just walked into?
two nurses invite me into a room with eccentric chairs that are meant to be accommodating, but they literally smell like mental health act assessments. i don't trust the chairs anymore than i trust the nurses.
nurse 1 starts: 'so what's brought you in today?'
me to me: well clearly you have, you fucking loons.
me to them: 'um, i don't know'
nurse 1: 'so we were reading your notes, so don't feel like you have to repeat anything because we know everything that has been going on.'
me to me: oh of course you fucking do. wait, what has been going on?
me to them: 'okay'.
nurse 1: 'we read an email you sent to your care coordinator, what are your beliefs on this now?'
me to me: beliefs? BELIEFS? do they think i'm delusional?
me to them: 'what beliefs?'
nurse 1: 'your beliefs about death, that you'd be better off dead.'
me to them: 'well i can't tell you about that because there is no good response'
nurse 1: are you scared you'll tell us you want to kill yourself and we won't react?
me to me: what the fuck hun, what are you talking about.
me to them: 'no i'm afraid that there's no good outcome. i don't know, none of this matters'.
nurse 1: 'why doesn't it matter? do you have any plans?'
me to me: it doesn't fucking matter because you're not listening, you have your own agenda.
me to them: 'no, i don't make plans. i don't like to make plans.'
nurse 1: 'that's because you only make suicide plans isn't it?'
me to me: can you fucking quit it, like are you ok hun. i don't make plans because i like to have free time to kill myself in.
nurse 1: 'can you just confirm that you are in fact thinking about ending your life?'
me to me: what the fucking fuck has my care coordinator written in my fucking notes for these two dimwits to have brought me in here to interrogate me?
me to them: 'I DON'T KNOW, PLEASE STOP THIS.'
nurse 1: 'what lead you to reaching out today?'
me to them: what
thankfully, someone knocked the door and invited interrogating lady out of the room.
nurse 2: 'so.... how was your bus journey?'
me to me: clutching at straws clearly
me to him: average.
interrogation nurse 1 reenters and informs me the Can't Really Help Team will indeed take me and asks whether i'd rather they go to my home address or whether i'd like to see them at the local psychiatric hospital. hahhahahaha. these idiots.
i think it was at that point i said i didn't want home treatment then got up and left.
i left feeling really riled up and honestly quite scared, the duty worker hadn't even spoken to me for five minutes on the phone and then i'd been cornered in a room with two nurses. one asking whether i was eating, taking my medication, drinking etcetera and then trying to force words into my mouth whilst forcing the CRHT on me.
i found out a few hours after i'd left the appointment that the referral had gone ahead and they're visiting tomorrow at 10am. excellent, what for?
on the way home i felt so angry and scared, i was meant to pick up meds but i couldn't sit still in the pharmacy. there were a lot of Normans™ out. Normans™ are a special brand of people that could easily be robots they look so generic and they're always doing generally peopley things and they just scare me because they always fucking look at me. they could easily be government programmed trained robots watching 'people of interest'. scary.
most importantly, thoughts to the deceased. rest in peace SP, in many peoples hearts and memories you will remain xxx
Friday, 28 July 2017
Thursday, 27 July 2017
sunday evening was bleak, i had shared a couple of my posts and then gone on to write a very sincere suicide note which has remained unpublished. i tell you, i wanted to post it so bad but i realised if i did then i was cutting strings. that suicide note would speak untold truths about myself, things i couldn't leave the world without saying, things i would feel bad not saying before going and as long as i don't publicly share it i have a reason to stay.
honestly though, it wasn't me clinging to life that prevented me posting it and throwing myself in front of a train. it was the fact that if i posted it, people would worry and when you're planning to kill yourself, worrying people is very low on the list of desires.
side note: apologies if i often talk about violent things quite casually, it's quite deliberate because if you find my writing disturbing, i believe it'll make you think about what it's like to co-exist in my/anyone else's brain with these thoughts and images.
in my experience, people like to be as far removed from pain as possible, it's the 'how are you?'s which aren't really a question, it's just on the conscience-appeasing tick list along with the 'well i'll be here if you need me's which aren't followed through. people don't like pain because it demands attention and for the most part, how on earth do you react to it?
that's rhetorical, i don't even know how to answer that, although i wish i did.
any who, back to the point, sunday was bleak. i fell asleep on monday at 7am. by the time i had woken up at 9am for my care coordinator's visit i was simply too tired to kill myself. excuses, excuses.
instead, for reasons i can't remember i decided to pick a fruitless battle with my care coordinator to leave me alone and discharge me.
it's probably worth noting that over the weekend i had decreased my medication and by sunday had decided i didn't need it at all. AND HONESTLY I WISH I WOULD JUST LEARN MY LESSON BECAUSE WHENEVER I START PLAYING WITH MY MEDS I TURN INTO A RIGHT NEUROTIC FRUITCAKE.
to quote myself in an email of idiocy to my care coordinator:
so monday i spent obsessing, and i really mean obsessing, over the fact that nothing was straight forward and everything was complicated and that the sun might be the moon and the moon might be the sun and the sun might swallow people whole because nothing makes sense and i wonder if daffodils can feel when people tear them from the ground and i wonder where the pied piper put all those children and really, really can we come to some conclusion that NOTHING MAKES SENSE. AAAAAAAAAGHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
i blame philosophy, that shit really fucks with my head ...or it might just be racing thoughts because i get them too. by tuesday i was feeling less loopy and decided to start taking my meds again and to ask my care coordinator to ignore my previous email.
wednesday was characterised by
however, in today i have found some kind of acceptance however fleeting it may prove to be. i feel okay in the knowledge that sometimes the line between 'bad' and 'terrible' is simply a cup of tea, it's also weirdly okay to be sad and not be killing myself - what a revelation. and actually, today whilst i was sat on my bed thinking of things i wanted to do, whilst simultaneously not wanting to do anything at all i thought 'hmm maybe i'm a bit depressed' and actually that' probably the closest i will come to admitting that i'm Not Okay™ just yet.
honestly though, it wasn't me clinging to life that prevented me posting it and throwing myself in front of a train. it was the fact that if i posted it, people would worry and when you're planning to kill yourself, worrying people is very low on the list of desires.
side note: apologies if i often talk about violent things quite casually, it's quite deliberate because if you find my writing disturbing, i believe it'll make you think about what it's like to co-exist in my/anyone else's brain with these thoughts and images.
in my experience, people like to be as far removed from pain as possible, it's the 'how are you?'s which aren't really a question, it's just on the conscience-appeasing tick list along with the 'well i'll be here if you need me's which aren't followed through. people don't like pain because it demands attention and for the most part, how on earth do you react to it?
that's rhetorical, i don't even know how to answer that, although i wish i did.
any who, back to the point, sunday was bleak. i fell asleep on monday at 7am. by the time i had woken up at 9am for my care coordinator's visit i was simply too tired to kill myself. excuses, excuses.
instead, for reasons i can't remember i decided to pick a fruitless battle with my care coordinator to leave me alone and discharge me.
it's probably worth noting that over the weekend i had decreased my medication and by sunday had decided i didn't need it at all. AND HONESTLY I WISH I WOULD JUST LEARN MY LESSON BECAUSE WHENEVER I START PLAYING WITH MY MEDS I TURN INTO A RIGHT NEUROTIC FRUITCAKE.
to quote myself in an email of idiocy to my care coordinator:
"To recover I would need to be unwell in the first place, which is arguable because there's no categorical proof that any state of mind is preferable over another. There is no proof and will never be proof that I'm the irrational one and everyone else is rational, its just as possible that it is in fact the opposite and in which case, how could I trust anyone?"
"It's just as possible that the symptoms that are 'treated' are things which on a higher level may be beneficial to my survival. It could all be an elaborate plan to disarm me to control me. How can I trust other people's judgement when I can't verify their intent? And I won't ever be able to do that because there's no way of being able to look inside someone's mind at their intentions."
sorry sophie, what?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!
i give myself a bloody headache.
i blame philosophy, that shit really fucks with my head ...or it might just be racing thoughts because i get them too. by tuesday i was feeling less loopy and decided to start taking my meds again and to ask my care coordinator to ignore my previous email.
wednesday was characterised by
"OH MY GOD I AM BETTER NOW, I AM BETTER, I AM BETTER I NEED. TO. DO. SOMETHING! anything, SOMETHING, ANYTHING."
and so far thursday's been a bit of 'oh wOw i feel vulnerable.' followed by me making a cup of tea, drinking said cup of tea and thinking 'oh Yes, that's better', proceeded by 'hanG On a minute i feel really Vulnerable this isn't okay' proceeded by another cup of tea and so forth. it probably didn't help masses that i woke up not where i was or what day it is.
today, i've felt young, as in the kind of 'oh-crap-i-need-to-protect-myself-because-someone-is-going-hit-me-in-a-second' and the 'okay. so i'm just going to cry here on my own because there is no one around and i feel scared'. it's as if i'm six again and there's danger everywhere. i'm an overgrown child walking around in denim dungarees with toys in my pocket so that i can distract myself from my thoughts with farting pink slime or the side-to-side motion of a yellow slinky.
Sunday, 23 July 2017
i should know better
what really bothers me, i mean what really fucking irks me, is that i should know better and yet i don't.
this time last year i was preparing to travel south east asia with my friend. little did i know i'd come home and spontaneously book a manic 10 day tour of europe. i was planning festivals, i was going out and seeing my friends all the time. i was selling all my stuff to follow my dream and go into nursing.
i had done my years being the chaotic teenage mess, i had scarred my body and gave my liver a run for it's money with paracetamol. i had hit the home run with stitches and a skin graft, becoming psychotic after an overdose of sleeping pills was just another story to tell the grandchildren. i knew my local CAMHS wards better than the staff, always finding a way to fight the system.
i was bored of it, i needed more and so i did the therapy. picked a goal and aimed for the stars.
i was well, i knew better.
i knew tall buildings, train tracks and pills came with a price. i hadn't self-harmed in 2 years, i hadn't overdosed in 2 years. i had been discharged from mental health services for a year and had managed without colliding into an emergency mental health act assessment. dare i say it, i was happy.
fast forward to february 2017, on my second placement as a student mental health nurse. i was doing it. i had crossed the line from chronically hopeless patient to chronically chirpy nursing student. when my patients stopped to ask me dumb questions, i smiled and i gave my best clinical advice and then i went to my mentor to get my pat on the back for saying the right thing.
i had been 'the enforcer' of the mental health act to my detained patients. i frowned sympathetically as my patients told me how much they hated their medication and i was that bloody person to tell them how side effects were worth it for the stability.
i took the compliments as people thanked me for my input as a group facilitator, i smiled sympathetically and pretended i was trying to understand - when i knew fucking well what it was like. i was a respected student nurse, i was also the enemy. i knew the system from a professional perspective, but also as a patient.
now, when the local acute ward nurses look at me in despair as they see i've been admitted a-fucking-gain they say 'we don't know what to do, we can't bullshit you, you've worked in this system. you know people die, you know the system doesn't work'. so rather than pretending to keep me safe, they ask me 'not to hang (myself) on the ward please because it's a lot of paperwork' and 'if i really want to kill myself, i know what i have to do'. it's not even cruel. i understand, if i am so intent on fucking dying why implicate good nurses when i can do it in my own time? if i'm going to set fire to myself, i should be polite enough not to do it on trust property.
i know setting myself on fire and the half hourly pretend hangings don't get me anywhere. i know this behaviour is exactly the thing which feeds into this fucking behaviour. i am my own worst enemy. i know smashing my head against a wall isn't going to make it stop, but bloody hell it's worth a try.
i should know better, but i don't.
because i am deliberately my own worst enemy, i hurt myself even when i don't want to because of The Rules™. because if i am not LIVING then i should be DYING and i can't give that up, it's all i have.
maybe one day i'll attempt suicide, either half heartedly or determinedly, and it will be that one time it works.one time is enough. i think of the three friends i have lost to suicide, the most recent the most devastating and in the sickest, most warped sense i idolise them because they're free. of course, i miss them dearly too, but they're free and i'm still here.
i was eight the first time i attempted suicide and wanting to be gone has been the only constant in the last fourteen years, so please forgive me. forgive me for knowing better, but doing it anyway.
this time last year i was preparing to travel south east asia with my friend. little did i know i'd come home and spontaneously book a manic 10 day tour of europe. i was planning festivals, i was going out and seeing my friends all the time. i was selling all my stuff to follow my dream and go into nursing.
i had done my years being the chaotic teenage mess, i had scarred my body and gave my liver a run for it's money with paracetamol. i had hit the home run with stitches and a skin graft, becoming psychotic after an overdose of sleeping pills was just another story to tell the grandchildren. i knew my local CAMHS wards better than the staff, always finding a way to fight the system.
i was bored of it, i needed more and so i did the therapy. picked a goal and aimed for the stars.
i was well, i knew better.
i knew tall buildings, train tracks and pills came with a price. i hadn't self-harmed in 2 years, i hadn't overdosed in 2 years. i had been discharged from mental health services for a year and had managed without colliding into an emergency mental health act assessment. dare i say it, i was happy.
fast forward to february 2017, on my second placement as a student mental health nurse. i was doing it. i had crossed the line from chronically hopeless patient to chronically chirpy nursing student. when my patients stopped to ask me dumb questions, i smiled and i gave my best clinical advice and then i went to my mentor to get my pat on the back for saying the right thing.
i had been 'the enforcer' of the mental health act to my detained patients. i frowned sympathetically as my patients told me how much they hated their medication and i was that bloody person to tell them how side effects were worth it for the stability.
i took the compliments as people thanked me for my input as a group facilitator, i smiled sympathetically and pretended i was trying to understand - when i knew fucking well what it was like. i was a respected student nurse, i was also the enemy. i knew the system from a professional perspective, but also as a patient.
now, when the local acute ward nurses look at me in despair as they see i've been admitted a-fucking-gain they say 'we don't know what to do, we can't bullshit you, you've worked in this system. you know people die, you know the system doesn't work'. so rather than pretending to keep me safe, they ask me 'not to hang (myself) on the ward please because it's a lot of paperwork' and 'if i really want to kill myself, i know what i have to do'. it's not even cruel. i understand, if i am so intent on fucking dying why implicate good nurses when i can do it in my own time? if i'm going to set fire to myself, i should be polite enough not to do it on trust property.
i know setting myself on fire and the half hourly pretend hangings don't get me anywhere. i know this behaviour is exactly the thing which feeds into this fucking behaviour. i am my own worst enemy. i know smashing my head against a wall isn't going to make it stop, but bloody hell it's worth a try.
i should know better, but i don't.
because i am deliberately my own worst enemy, i hurt myself even when i don't want to because of The Rules™. because if i am not LIVING then i should be DYING and i can't give that up, it's all i have.
maybe one day i'll attempt suicide, either half heartedly or determinedly, and it will be that one time it works.
i was eight the first time i attempted suicide and wanting to be gone has been the only constant in the last fourteen years, so please forgive me. forgive me for knowing better, but doing it anyway.
i don't know
my favourite phrase over the last few months has been 'i don't know'.
i don't know why i am.
i don't know what i'm here to do.
i don't know how my story ends.
i don't know why my brain sometimes burns hotter than the earth's core.
i don't know why my brain sometimes deepfreezes faster than the artic circle.
i don't know why i take the meds.
i don't know why i don't take the meds.
i don't know why i hurt myself.
i don't know why i don't.
i don't know why i'm broken.
i don't know when i'm fixed.
i don't know where three months went.
i don't know why when i was walking through town a few days ago i felt the 'click' and i knew everything was going to be okay.
i don't know why i push people away.
i don't know why i would keep anyone close.
i don't know what they're saying about me.
because they say a lot.
i've been described as many things since being catapulted into adult acute mental health wards four months ago.
depressed. unwell. obsessive. avoidant. eating disordered. well. attention-deficit. emotionally unstable. psychotic. agitated. detainable. undetainable. isolated. changeable. tearful. traumatised.
actually, traumatised has been mentioned a lot and i don't actually feel traumatised.
with all those words, it's hard to know what is relevant or what will actually stick.
arguably, clinical terms have no place in my life, but people keep telling me i will get better - how do i get better when i don't know where i'm starting from?
what exactly is better?
how can i get better when i don't know what my baseline is?
because i'm told it's good when i'm happy and laughing, but when i am it feels like the whole world is on fire. nothing is funny, it's hysterical, everything is hysterical. music isn't enjoyable, it's necessary - the faster and louder the better. i don't walk, i stomp, or skip, or dance. it feels electric and uncontrollable, it's like driving down the autobahn blindfolded. it's fun for a few hours, then i can't organise my thoughts because they keep elbowing each other out the way and pushing to get to the front. by that point i want anything that will ease it, quetiapine, lorazepam, zopiclone, promethazine, diazepam - whatever there is, i'll take it because i need to stop.
i'm currently having a silent disco in the darkness of my bedroom, silent because no one is allowed to share this moment with me. 2000s dance music, if it's not fast enough it gets skipped. in spite of the chronic lack of benzos in the community, i am binge eating (/drinking?) prosecco & peach bellini icelollies. PSA: £2.99 at aldi, 4.5% abv - you're welcome!
then there's the opposite.
the i will lay in this bed until i die, the i can't eat or drink because i categorically cannot do anything to sustain my life. the sunlight is too bright, other people even breathing near me is intolerable because how dare you breathe and be alive when i am so sad. i like to think of this as my stupidest level, because i'll go sit on cliffs for a cigarette and take picnics to high buildings and of course i am unstoppable because everyone will understand that is okay to die when i am this sad.arguably, in countries in which assisted suicide is legal, chances are i could get help with it. which is always argued and ends in full body restraints with me screaming profanities at the police, then the bubble pops and the uncontrollable crying starts.
have you even been mental if you haven't been restrained on the floor of a custody cell with a police officer having to wipe the dripping snot off your face? 2nd PSA: custody cells shouldn't be used for section 136s, police, though well meaning, are raging idiots when it comes to mental health. i kid, all illness is real and valid, this is just my spot to bitch and whine about my life whilst covertly bragging about just how mental i am (very? not at all?). i would actually write more about this, but when i'm this disgruntled by life i stop remembering it.
finally, the middle...
the
none of them are particularly sustainable, but which one is me ill? or are all three? and if they all are, then where the bloody hell am i aiming?
why does it matter?
i don't know why i am.
i don't know what i'm here to do.
i don't know how my story ends.
i don't know why my brain sometimes burns hotter than the earth's core.
i don't know why my brain sometimes deepfreezes faster than the artic circle.
i don't know why i take the meds.
i don't know why i don't take the meds.
i don't know why i hurt myself.
i don't know why i don't.
i don't know why i'm broken.
i don't know when i'm fixed.
i don't know where three months went.
i don't know why when i was walking through town a few days ago i felt the 'click' and i knew everything was going to be okay.
i don't know why i push people away.
i don't know why i would keep anyone close.
i don't know what they're saying about me.
because they say a lot.
i've been described as many things since being catapulted into adult acute mental health wards four months ago.
depressed. unwell. obsessive. avoidant. eating disordered. well. attention-deficit. emotionally unstable. psychotic. agitated. detainable. undetainable. isolated. changeable. tearful. traumatised.
actually, traumatised has been mentioned a lot and i don't actually feel traumatised.
with all those words, it's hard to know what is relevant or what will actually stick.
arguably, clinical terms have no place in my life, but people keep telling me i will get better - how do i get better when i don't know where i'm starting from?
what exactly is better?
how can i get better when i don't know what my baseline is?
because i'm told it's good when i'm happy and laughing, but when i am it feels like the whole world is on fire. nothing is funny, it's hysterical, everything is hysterical. music isn't enjoyable, it's necessary - the faster and louder the better. i don't walk, i stomp, or skip, or dance. it feels electric and uncontrollable, it's like driving down the autobahn blindfolded. it's fun for a few hours, then i can't organise my thoughts because they keep elbowing each other out the way and pushing to get to the front. by that point i want anything that will ease it, quetiapine, lorazepam, zopiclone, promethazine, diazepam - whatever there is, i'll take it because i need to stop.
i'm currently having a silent disco in the darkness of my bedroom, silent because no one is allowed to share this moment with me. 2000s dance music, if it's not fast enough it gets skipped. in spite of the chronic lack of benzos in the community, i am binge eating (/drinking?) prosecco & peach bellini icelollies. PSA: £2.99 at aldi, 4.5% abv - you're welcome!
then there's the opposite.
the i will lay in this bed until i die, the i can't eat or drink because i categorically cannot do anything to sustain my life. the sunlight is too bright, other people even breathing near me is intolerable because how dare you breathe and be alive when i am so sad. i like to think of this as my stupidest level, because i'll go sit on cliffs for a cigarette and take picnics to high buildings and of course i am unstoppable because everyone will understand that is okay to die when i am this sad.
have you even been mental if you haven't been restrained on the floor of a custody cell with a police officer having to wipe the dripping snot off your face? 2nd PSA: custody cells shouldn't be used for section 136s, police, though well meaning, are raging idiots when it comes to mental health. i kid, all illness is real and valid, this is just my spot to bitch and whine about my life whilst covertly bragging about just how mental i am (very? not at all?). i would actually write more about this, but when i'm this disgruntled by life i stop remembering it.
finally, the middle...
the
- i
- am
- so
- bored
none of them are particularly sustainable, but which one is me ill? or are all three? and if they all are, then where the bloody hell am i aiming?
why does it matter?
because my life has no purpose. i am excess.
and,
like,
if i'm not ill then this is just my life,
and this life sucks.
but if i am ill,
then i have been for at least nine years,
and this life still sucks.
Thursday, 20 July 2017
*cringe*
i don't really know what i'm doing, there's been a niggling thought in my head for many weeks and it's the thought that i should document ~things~ whilst i am in fact going through ~things~. 'going through things', strange phrase, aren't we all? nothing special about me.
okay, so there's this urge to write which has been gently bubbling for a while and i've kind of left it there because there's also this catastrophic tornado of thoughts in my head which are saying, or rather shouting, that i need to stay quiet, unnoticeable and to stop. fucking. bothering. people.
and as i write this, that train of thought is really screaming in my head, i mean like, really screaming. it's almost palpable. these thoughts are hot steam, they are the broken nib of a pen smashed angrily into paper; a dementor kissing my soul ready to steal it. if my skull were the earth, these thoughts would be the earthquake.
they're seething, so angry at me for disobeying.
and why?
because people like me do not deserve voices. we do not deserve attention. we do not deserve to be heard, because we have nothing important to say. people like me are leeches on society and if we're going to leech off society, we should at least be quiet about it. do not attract attention. do not fool anyone into believing we could possibly ever be more than we are now.
so, just writing this is bad. inherently bad, like myself. writing this gives me a voice which i don't deserve. it feels awful to be acting against these furious thoughts. but, someone once told me the only cure for these thoughts is to act against them, to do what they tell me not to, and so i write. i write even though it feels like radioactive maggots are burrowing through my cerebrum, because maybe i do deserve a voice and maybe i am capable of great things, but these maggots are holding me back.
today is as good a starting place as any, so i begin blogging (again) under the illusion that maybe it will help. or i'll find a voice. or that someone might want to hear me. or basically, just bloody anything which isn't this, because the thought of being this forever, is actually worse than all the dementors and maggots in the world.
okay, so there's this urge to write which has been gently bubbling for a while and i've kind of left it there because there's also this catastrophic tornado of thoughts in my head which are saying, or rather shouting, that i need to stay quiet, unnoticeable and to stop. fucking. bothering. people.
and as i write this, that train of thought is really screaming in my head, i mean like, really screaming. it's almost palpable. these thoughts are hot steam, they are the broken nib of a pen smashed angrily into paper; a dementor kissing my soul ready to steal it. if my skull were the earth, these thoughts would be the earthquake.
they're seething, so angry at me for disobeying.
and why?
because people like me do not deserve voices. we do not deserve attention. we do not deserve to be heard, because we have nothing important to say. people like me are leeches on society and if we're going to leech off society, we should at least be quiet about it. do not attract attention. do not fool anyone into believing we could possibly ever be more than we are now.
so, just writing this is bad. inherently bad, like myself. writing this gives me a voice which i don't deserve. it feels awful to be acting against these furious thoughts. but, someone once told me the only cure for these thoughts is to act against them, to do what they tell me not to, and so i write. i write even though it feels like radioactive maggots are burrowing through my cerebrum, because maybe i do deserve a voice and maybe i am capable of great things, but these maggots are holding me back.
today is as good a starting place as any, so i begin blogging (again) under the illusion that maybe it will help. or i'll find a voice. or that someone might want to hear me. or basically, just bloody anything which isn't this, because the thought of being this forever, is actually worse than all the dementors and maggots in the world.
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