2019 March 11th, Monday

Page 3, a recap. I plan to continue onwards and leave you to put most of the pieces together, but I won't leave you too much in the dark. I'll take a stab at describing anything important I've missed.

Day by Day

March 11^th, 2019

(Looking back on February 12^th-13^th)

Back Story, and Backwards Writing

The doctor told me I need more medication. That was several months ago.

Before page one, before my existence had been narrowed down into words and sentences.

Now I’m in a different month, and I still feel the need to go back. So I will. For you, and for me.

Over those months I struggled, over those months I fell. I suffer from psychosis, a sort of mix of anxiety and paranoia, boiling over.

It is the cause of six different illness vying for control in one mind, conquering brain cells in the abominable hell like a war-torn world of Neanderthal colonies pollinating my brain with self-hate.

Last semester of college, my sanity evaporated. I almost shattered into abstract art.

So now I’m in the doctor's office, picking up the pieces. Time is a precious commodity, so I felt the need to backtrack.

Several months back I was proud and unbroken to the idea of taking more of the medication that restrained my brain like a policeman restrains the mentally ill they consider “dangerous.”

Now I am begging and pleading for a reason for living in this never lifting obituary fog frolicking without apology in the monotony of my life.

And so the doctor and I conversed, along with my father. And his assistant smiled occasionally, and wrote things down on a computer screen, only quickly glancing up at us now and then.

My father was very adamant on more medication, unbeknownst to the fact that he has never taken mind-altering dissolving stones to treat a disorder no one can truly comprehend, let alone the patient. 

I would not treat pain with the inability to feel.

I used to think I didn't need things like this, that I could stand on my own.

I used to think I was better now, that I didn’t need this medical “help” anymore.

That I didn’t need to drug myself just to live my life.

I had spent almost three years hospitalized for my illnesses. Three years without freedom. 

Three years away from family and friends, three years of backwards thinking.

So much so that I had more problems when I left that hospital than I had to begin with.

My ability to produce self-written music, my athletic body, my ability to socialize.

Hell, I can't even run away from it all. I could barely walk when I left that place.

All stolen by prejudice. The prejudice that we all must think the same way in order to be safe, loving, equal human beings.

Months at a time without sunlight, under the artificial sky of the sterile marijuana of white stars and white walls.

I won’t lie down and die, in the face of the coming tsunami of hate, even if I have to dig myself out of my mud grave afterwards.

That’s what I thought, or at least what I told myself when I left that place.

I’ve been in too deep before, so I know when the tide is rising and the storm and lightning are forsworn reborn to terrorize seismic on the horizon.

So I gave in.

I took up his offer.

Now I take sixteen pills per day instead of fifteen.

And I continued to wallow and drown in the deep end of life.

I went to school the next day, under a false sense of happiness.

And life continued onwards, and although I missed the train, at least I had a lifeboat.

But because of this safety net protecting me molecularly like a hecatomb etching corrections on me like an effigy.

I’ve sacrificed control, in this fishbowl. 

Redecorated my essence, lost a part of me, decayed in this bird cage

And forgotten how to swim.

Because this ship has sailed.

Because humanity is an ornament of importance, and we’ve passed that cornerstone, unconforming like porcelain dolls in a porno who don't feel anything at all. 

Because we decide who is human, and who must be made human again, by any means necessary. 

And because humanity continues to float elastic in an LSD sea of plastic masochism, with or without me.

Author's Note

I'd like to know your thoughts! Oh, and you can expect more of this in the future. When the time comes, eventually, tomorrow, or perhaps later, but eventually.