CIJS?
Sometimes I think I'm crazy. Not just in a funny way of saying it. No. I think perhaps I lost all sense of normalcy sometime in the last four years and I have learned to live in paranoia, fear, exhaustion, phases of carelessness, highs, lows, hiding, complying, actually having fun in the middle of it all, day dreaming of death, knowing I'd never do it, sabotage, guilt, pity, and wondering...
Maybe I'm exaggerating? Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm seeing things. Maybe I'm harsh. Maybe I'm delusional. Then I see the evidence. Texts. People remembering. Pictures. I'm not exaggerating. Right? I have reasons to feel this way. But then... why doesn't it stop? Why don't I do something more to help myself? So, I'm a fool. An idiot. A crazy person who died four years ago and has been laughing at jokes, drinking a beer, enjoying flan, walking around slow motion. If you zoom in, there are shadows lingering. I'm waving and high fiving while in my bruised head I'm wondering... will my heart stop in the next minutes? Please? It won't, because I'm a strong but weak person. I fail in normal. Normal is not keen to me. I have nornalized the lack of commitment to joy. I'm a fraud. I laugh out loud at dinner like an emoji on a screen. It's not flesh. My heart skips a beat when something is beautiful, but it skips days and years because I'm a coward. A coward. A fucken coward.
I'll take my meds and continue my treatment, because I refuse to waste another decade. I'll see my psychiatrist, therapist and primary doctor, because they say I can get better. I'll keep getting help. But can I just say? I think they're not aware that I'm not just bruised. I'm dismembered. I'm shattered glass that will never forgive the cracks even with glue. No amount of paint will make this paper wall become concrete. Whatever.
Then I think maybe I'm not crazy... I'm just experiencing side effects. Stop, Jack. Just stop.
Sometimes I think I'm crazy. Not just in a funny way of saying it. No. I think perhaps I lost all sense of normalcy sometime in the last four years and I have learned to live in paranoia, fear, exhaustion, phases of carelessness, highs, lows, hiding, complying, actually having fun in the middle of it all, day dreaming of death, knowing I'd never do it, sabotage, guilt, pity, and wondering...
Maybe I'm exaggerating? Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm seeing things. Maybe I'm harsh. Maybe I'm delusional. Then I see the evidence. Texts. People remembering. Pictures. I'm not exaggerating. Right? I have reasons to feel this way. But then... why doesn't it stop? Why don't I do something more to help myself? So, I'm a fool. An idiot. A crazy person who died four years ago and has been laughing at jokes, drinking a beer, enjoying flan, walking around slow motion. If you zoom in, there are shadows lingering. I'm waving and high fiving while in my bruised head I'm wondering... will my heart stop in the next minutes? Please? It won't, because I'm a strong but weak person. I fail in normal. Normal is not keen to me. I have nornalized the lack of commitment to joy. I'm a fraud. I laugh out loud at dinner like an emoji on a screen. It's not flesh. My heart skips a beat when something is beautiful, but it skips days and years because I'm a coward. A coward. A fucken coward.
I'll take my meds and continue my treatment, because I refuse to waste another decade. I'll see my psychiatrist, therapist and primary doctor, because they say I can get better. I'll keep getting help. But can I just say? I think they're not aware that I'm not just bruised. I'm dismembered. I'm shattered glass that will never forgive the cracks even with glue. No amount of paint will make this paper wall become concrete. Whatever.
Then I think maybe I'm not crazy... I'm just experiencing side effects. Stop, Jack. Just stop.
"Hipster is what happens when young hot people do what old ladies do." -Exian