Angst February 28, 2007

I’m angry for enumerable reasons such as people trying to look through my stuff, or looking at me, or scrutinizing me.

Leave me the fuck alone.

I’m not crazy!

I don’t need these antipsychotic drugs and mood stabilizers. I know I have issues. That’s all. That’s all we need to work on. Not my neurochemistry, not my hormones.

Leave me alone!

Every look makes more concrete the fact that I am stumbling along. Don’t make me more alive. Don’t affirm. Don’t make me feel that you know I exist.

I’m just too angry now. I’m just too angry to even focus on being angry!

(And you know what sucks? I DON’T KNOW WHY I’M ANGRY!)

All I know is that I want to be alone, and silent, and nothing.

—

My heart shuts down.
Clearly, there is nothing for me there anymore, anyway. It lingers on the edges of uncertainty: walking away, I take just one more look behind and it slows me down.

Polaris February 26, 2007

The night is racing, racing as before,
And death comes knocking, knocking on my door.

I am not schizophrenic!
Sure, at times I get paranoid, suspicious and I am haunted by ghosts in my bedroom. But that does not make me schizophrenic. At all.

I’m not sick. I’m not ill. I’m normal. I just have a few issues to work out, that’s all.

So it is finally revealed: the guidance office told me to see a psychiatrist because they do not have the “tools” to distinguish between manic-depression and schizophrenia. Well, I can tell them right now that I am not schizophrenic. I was made to understand that the bipolar spectrum overlaps with schizophrenic symptoms.

Oh well. At least I don’t think I have it. So I don’t.

Rolleaux February 25, 2007

I don’t want to get medicated.

I’m starting to believe that there is no such thing as mental illness. It’s just a different way of looking at things. More and more, I’m beginning to realize that there is no one right way of seeing the world.

Sure, depression is hell and life-threatening. And mania is exhausting and scary (my owm mother called me “violent”!)

But the question is: Who will I be after medication? I don’t know who I am right now, and I don’t want to be alienated further.

I just discovered that I’m not so weird after all. When I think about thinking, I’m doing what’s now called metacognition. It’s hell on concentration, and it makes thoughts race.

I Miss Feeling February 25, 2007

How can I stand here with you,

And not be moved by you?

I plunge into my memories only to find frames. Empty. Nothing. I remember superficial things like the crystalline raindrops on the window panes, the exact day and time, how he said “I missed you,” the intoxication, the alcohol, the exact words that you said: the wind running tangent to my eyes.

But the feeling is locked away, far from me. I can’t feel it again.

It seems that all I do is mourn for me. And that’s the scope of how I feel. I can’t feel anything anymore! I see the images in my head, but it stops there.

This malignancy is frustrating. I feel sub-human. I’m already suicidal, and I’m not kidding. Remember all those time when I muttered ‘kill me!’ or ‘I will die!’? Those are prayers.

Edging Psychopathy February 23, 2007

Why?

When I think of you suffering and dying, I feel proud- of my artwork and the social service I must be doing. Not to mention the fun behind it.

Don’t flatter yourself. I would not eat you if you were the last piece of meat on this earth. I can’t stand to be 15 feet from you, so I’m sure my bowels won’t find you appetizing either.

 

Clone February 22, 2007

The semblance is so uncanny that only my emotions tell me the truth. The way the things fit themselves in specific, minute places gives me a clue: there is a symmetry, a harmony, a theme to this. What it is, I do not know yet.

“trust me.”

Trust what? And how? Am I not already too much prone to you?

I’m tired of racing back and forth between here and there when here is so much safer.

I’m tired and toxic.

Psychiatric appointment on Tuesday. I’m willing to overstep the supposed stigma just to end the hell in my head. I can’t ever really expound on it. It’s either I’m in it and paralyzed or I’m out of it but lingering on the edges.

I’d do anything to feel normal.

Rabid February 21, 2007

I’ve never felt so inclined to lock myself up in the bathroom and just stare. I’ve never felt so unquiet, so restless, so deeply troubled.

I sat perplexed on the bathroom floor and waited until my fingers and toes wrinkled in the water. I turned on the faucet- the gushing sound will block or blend or muffle or defy my tears.

She says that I’m manic like this, because I can’t stop and something has to give. Like very thin ice, something must break. A few hundred capillaries, a few tiles more, a night like tonight wherein I should be studying but all I can do is destroy or create…

I plead for some form of rescue. A calamity, a rush, an accident, a tragedy… anything to overcome my own. I’m feeble this way.

And all this time I ask myself why me?

I make useless multiple associations between things, and my thoughts jump uselessly around, wandering to far away places from which they are pulled even before anything significant could be done.

Save me from myself.

Bound February 20, 2007

In time, I can begin to tell you how I confined you to places where I could pretend you didn’t exist or that I didn’t exist.

It was a wrinkle, a dent in the fabric of this three-dimensional plane that masquerades as reality. When did my senses ever concede to what is immediate and concrete? They are abrasive intrusions to the world which I can reconstruct as I wish, how I wish, if I wish.

So let us then agree that it never was. The feeling is strangely empty, blank and devoid of any colors. It must be better that way (it is the only way).

I must admit that I was trying to reel in any emotion that I can feel. It was an open trap and I wanted to know if the snapping sound of the footholds would reverberate as they should, or did.

However, my mind is flying. Even before I could remember why, I already thought of how it would have appeared if it was narrated in a novel.

She squints her eyes to make them remember tears.
But it was blood that fell through the gaps and she found herself
Exactly where she had started from: nowhere.

Or, perhaps this would be better:

The empty room sat out of the way
Where ordinary people dare not go
A room made to be remembered then forgotten
Four walls to keep it all in.

God, save me from these thoughts like flies that buzz around a carcass.