Stream of Conciousness

I think today I will write.

random disclaimer!! 🗣️🗣️ I will be writing whatever tf comes to my head (ending up being over the course of a few weeks) I am not allowed to delete anything I write (unless there’s a typo, I’ll kms) nor can I think about what to write next for a long time. Yeah, let’s go !

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I’m sitting in my room; my hair is wet on my neck from my shower; I hate that feeling. I have an awful headache, the one I get when I’ve been off my meds for a few days too long. I remembered I hadn’t taken them in a while; probably 3 days or so. I only learn this when I suddenly begin to feel horrible like I’d do anything to not have to feel anything ever again. I’m off my meds. I hope I won’t forget them again tonight. Not that I’ve been “forgetting” sometimes I just decide not to take them. Test the limits, my fate. We’ll see what happens and see how long I could possibly go without being medicated for once in my life.

Obviously, it is not long. I can make it usually about two days. My limit of trying to work like a normal person is two days. God. Fuck. That’s depressing if I’m going to be honest. I really hate that I feel this way. So, I’m not sure why I decide to not take my meds. I like the control at least that’s what my therapist says. Hey that rhymes.

I was working on another piece before this, but I decided I wanted to stop thinking and start feeling instead. That’s a banger line right there. I like doing things like this because it makes me feel raw and real even though I know I’m going to read this over and make 1000 edits (though I’m “not allowed” to bc of the prompt— ugh) to try and make myself more tasteful and easier to swallow. The way I think sometimes concerns me. This afternoon I cried because I had an overwhelming urge to destroy myself my skin my vessel. I thought maybe it would calm my brain that for some random reason was screaming for some form of relief. I’m still not sure why I needed the relief; I guess that’s the funny thing with addiction. I’m not addicted to the feeling anymore I’m just addicted to the thought. I remember I got angry because I couldn’t do it. Getting angry made me want it 1000 times more and it made my fingers and wrists ache like they’ve never before. I needed steel in my hands I needed something in my skin that reminded me I was real.

I have so much on my skin already that screams at me that I am real. Each morning, I wake up and tell it to myself in the mirror. You are real you are real you are real you don’t need this you don’t need this you don’t need this. I guess I don’t need it, but the problem is, I really, really do. I feel like my skin is something that doesn’t need to be here, like the real me, true me is under it. She is begging to be free and every time I try to free her; I’m looked at with a shame like no other.

I don’t talk to my father much anymore and after I was first committed to the mental hospital I stopped almost entirely. He texts sometimes and I take the whole day to respond. He comes to visit sometimes but I pretend he doesn’t. That is what I am doing now. The TV is loud outside my room, and I’m not used to being up this late but when he is here, I think I stop being a human. I start to become something that no longer has any thoughts besides how the fuck can I escape him? I think the answer to that is that I can’t. I’ve written about this a million times; one cannot simply escape from their own flesh and blood. No matter how much I want to expel him from me, I cannot. I’d kill myself and that blood would not be mine but his.

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I am writing this a few days later now; just after waking up from a long afternoon nap. Naps don’t always heal something in me, but I like to take them anyway. Last night I had an argument with my mom. I don’t argue with my mom. She told me all the things that existed that could fix what was wrong with me and I think I remembered how it felt to be ten years old again. I told her this. Mom, I haven’t been able to be “fixed” since I was ten years old. I am almost sixteen now and I have never done anything productive in my life because of this. I wish that she knew how it felt to me be, but I would never wish for her to have to actually be me.

She told me I needed a challenge, that I needed to leave the country for a few weeks. I asked how this would heal something in me. It is not a nap that I take in the afternoon that she is implying. I understand her point of view but mom when I ask you if you know how it feels to be me, please don’t repeat the same question about yourself. Mom, I do not know how it feels to be you, but I remain compassionate and all I am asking is for that back. You do not know what it takes for me to peel myself from my bed each morning and start my day— I wish I could sleep for a year. And I do not know if you have a similar struggle but if you do can you give me that bit of grace instead of making it about you, mom?

I write about my parents a lot. I think it’s hard for me to remember that my parents aren’t really like other peoples, but I write about it to try and find why. My dad is mean to me; my mom has horrible chronic anxiety. Somehow, my dad always weighs out to be worse. I love my mother, and I guess I love my dad but not in the way that I should. I love him because he is my dad, and I have to. It is not love but it is enough to get me by.

I turned sixteen three days ago by the way.