Tag Archives: mental health

Swallowing Diamonds: Does It Hurt?

Don’t even know if you left a note
Should we blame the Dekapote? Or vilify the Abilify?
You were trying to find your vanilla sky
Then you unravel, facedown on rock bottom
Fucking chewing gravel, because
A human’s so fragile, what can you do?

~*~

Got another issue

Pressing like a migraine

And all the healthy “bless you’s”

Can’t repair, can’t compare

To the amount of extraordinary pain

That’s felt with every angry stare

.

So I take a pistol that’s pink on one end

And swallow it whole ‘cause my life depends

On the gunpowder chemicals

Checking up on my broken physicals

Recycling my blood through and through

10 out of 10 doctors recommend that it’s true

.

They all thought I was blissful

‘Cause they never wanna hear about

The things that are fucking awful

Trained by clinical trials, trained by pharmaceuticals

So I’m still saying “I don’t need your help!”

As I choke on my fucking gavel

.

I’ve got a teaspoon of anxiety for my head

And a glass of borderline thoughts before I go to bed

As my body fights every request and rejects my skin

The strangers may praise me, but I will never win

Even if I had all the money in the world to sell out what I love

Would that change the happiness I lack in my blood?

.

‘Cause everyone’s a critic

And a cynic and they all “get it”

When they’re living in glowing cities

With their missus, acting clever

With their 9-5 IQ’s and 401k GPA endeavours

Feeling guilty their children didn’t get their Nerf Guns

.

But monsters don’t discriminate, it’s all fair game

No blame on no names, every label is the same

You could be sitting in gold and still don’t want to get old

You could be in a prison cell and don’t do what you’re told

Or you could be like me, contemplating a straitjacket tee

On my way out to an existence that doesn’t cope out too badly

.

So maybe there are issues that cannot be fixed with tissues

Or underhanded “you’re fine’s” or endless rounds of “bless you’s”

But it doesn’t hurt to compare and it doesn’t hurt to repair

The amount of extraordinary pain that no fake adrenaline stain

Nor serotonin on our hair, taken with a beggar’s angry stares

I’m only human like you and them after all, would it hurt me to care?

~*~

They press our teardrops into diamonds
They change our sorrows into gold
They’re gonna turn our blood to rubies
We just need someone we can hold…

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Filed under Poetry

How come no one heard her when she said—?

She doesn’t know she’s beautiful
‘Cause no one’s ever told her so
And the demons that she hides are all she knows
And maybe she can fall in love
With someone in her life that she could trust
And tell her she’s enough
(Will someone tell her she’s enough?)

~*~

How come no one

heard her when she

was screaming in her

bedroom at three in the

morning, scratching madly

at the pristine walls until

her fingernails broke and bled?

.

How come no one

heard her when she

was crying in a bathroom

stall, all the things they threw at

her leaving marks, and all

the ugly names they chanted at

her still ringing violently in her head?

.

How come no one

heard her when she

was slicing and hacking

away at her unhealing skin

so fucking audibly, and when

she slipped on that liquid

and fell with a thud, bruised and

bathed in puddles of dirty red?

.

How come no one

heard her when she

moaned as she rested fitfully

sleep paralysis taking full

control of every recourse

mouthing all the words

to the nightmares, those things

that she’s always left unsaid?

.

How come no one

heard her when she

vomited bile and empty air

kneeling faithlessly in front of the

porcelain god, sharp ribs poking

through her paper chest, even when

she ate nothing the whole day,

with herself she was still disgusted?

.

How come no one

heard her when she

was laughing, singing, and

talking by herself, and striking

up lengthy conversations with the

imaginary friends she made up

and the demons that she wed?

.

How come no one

heard her when she

asked relentlessly for help

begging and pleading, saying

that no doctor nor medicine

could ever cure her, and perhaps

an iota of support and care

for her was all she ever needed?

.

How come no one

heard her when she was already

being so earsplittingly loud

blind eyes and deaf ears

blaming nothing but the victim

“it was her fault” they say

“she should have said something”

but they all ignored her when

she actually piped up

keeping the regret to the very end—

and now she’s silent forever

and all her words went ahead…

tell me, how come no one

heard her until she was already dead?

~*~

Maybe I’m better off dead
If I was, would it finally be enough
To shut out all those voices in my head?
Maybe I’m better off dead, better off dead!
Did you hear a word, hear a word I said?
This is not where I belong
You’re gonna miss me when I’m gone…

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Filed under Poetry

Give the filthy pauper a gold crown

I don’t deserve this, any of this, all of this.

It’s been a spine-crushing, mental-breaking, emotionally-draining day, and I’ve been nothing but empty and depressed, emotionally compromised, and I’ve done a lot of idiotic, harmful things to myself that might get my body to god knows what state, and will surely get me shipped straight to a psychiatric facility if anyone in the nearby vicinity of the household found out. But nay, the troubles did not end there. They carried on all the way to tonight, where I proceeded to nearly give a friend instant myocardial infarction, and most likely ruined the rest of their day by not replying to them for 12 hours, when they probably already thought I was lying in the hospital unconscious, or worse, bleeding out and dead in my room.

I also somehow unintentionally forced another to shove the massive screaming elephant into a contained white room and fucking blow it up with fireworks, leaving a splattered mess of red everywhere that I can’t ignore or clean up. And what did clever old me do? Wallow ignorantly in the viscera and splash around it, as if I couldn’t exacerbate the damage any more than I already have, tasting acrid iron and bitter copper on my tongue, the metallic scent wafting overpoweringly strong, and pretended that the person who lit the fuse was not standing in front of me, and I’m getting guts and blood all over them, the very same guts they had in order to do such a sort of unprecedented thing. I acted like a coward and ran with my tail between my legs in the face of a braver light, and I’m not fucking proud of it.

Firstly, here’s a very much needed—yet all the same sincere—thank you for the scant number of people who know they damn well earned it. Thank you, a disgustingly-overused and horridly-cliché phrase that I could neither express eloquently nor enough. It helps, really, despite the fact that it goes against everything I usually say, about motivation, and fuck, they don’t even know how much it all means to me. It’s just always so fucking gratifying to find out just how much people care, or even just to know that there are people who care, and highly unsurprising to find out how many so-called “friends” simply don’t give a rat’s ass whether you tap dance your way off a building rooftop or contact incurable cholera and die a slow, painful death.

But then again, the fault has always lied in me. I was not built for a sense of human synergy, I have dysfunctional social relationships, somehow I’m too blinded and can never read the actual lines, and I’m too desensistised and incapable in sensing the signs and feeling the atmosphere. I’m not normal. I’m guarded, defensive, cynical, manipulative, a chronic liar, an absolute jerk, and I’m just listing off the least deprecating qualities of myself here. Unfortunately, with such traits, there are always those who I accidentally run over without stopping to see the red light, so it’s always a big revelation to me to discover that there are people who actually stick around with me despite my inane insufferableness.

So there, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I never speak about my problems and what’s bothering me because I don’t want to bother anyone else, then expect you to give a damn about my superficial issues and pathetic angsty dramaticness, like you don’t have enough of transgressions of your own already. I’m sorry I shut everything out when things get too sentimental. It’s not because I don’t want to show weakness and expect you to do the same, it’s not mainly because I don’t know how to handle it, but it’s because I just don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve your trust, your comfort, your honesty, your sympathetic words, I don’t deserve to see the deeper side of you that no one else has dared swam into. I’m total fucking arsehole, douchebag of the year awardee, and if I get abandoned, it’s not like it wasn’t coming for me anyways. You really don’t have to exert effort and emotion on someone that’s not worth your time. You have better things to do. You have other things to change. You have your own chaos to arrange. You didn’t have to. You shouldn’t have to.

Despite the outer façade of shallowest self-pity, I pray and repeal on the contrary. These are nothing but stupid little realisations and actualisations that I believe, assimilated and programmed in my clouded, shitfaced, oxygen-deprived brain after extensive hours of overthinking about it. I don’t deserve good friends. I don’t deserve cheering up and ice cream and bunnies and rainbows. I’m undeserving of absolution. The suffering, I was truly asking for it, but not even God should grant me the peace of mind I don’t deserve. I’m not meant to be fixed. I can’t be. That much, I know.

I’m too selfish to deserve selflessness.

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Filed under Prose

Adventures in Counseling

(Disclaimer: All accounts are purely fictional, highly dramatised, and do not necessarily reflect the views and opinions of the author. And anyone who says and believes otherwise is an idiot.)

~*~

It’s so exhausting, having to play pretend and act normal. Having to pretend to be mentally stable and mimic the actions of someone who’s having a ball of a time, as the smiling fucker, oh sorry, you meant counselor—honest mistake—grins as she dissects your brain with your fallible lies and a razor glint of her diabetes sweet teeth, faker than fucking plastic surgery. The wall clock ticks softly in excoriation, and with each tick you die a little inside, bit by bit, nerve by nerve, line for line.

You don’t know why you were called here in the first place, but shit, somehow it’s inevitable, and here you are now, caught up in the viscous web, sitting in the red plush couch of a pastel-drunk room with pleasant hues, looking at a hulking woman that looks like she’s going to bite your head off if you dare even move as much as twitch your eyeball to the left. This sucks bollocks. Now you have to have to act, smile, play nice, calculate your answers, and take precaution in every word and letter, because a single minor slip-up and congratulations, you’re fucking insane! You win an all-expenses paid trip to the asylum, and please take a complimentary straitjacket on your way out! Them’s the breaks, you mentally incompetent loser.

But despite everything else, you’re still trying to be as truthful as you can be, giving her a predisposed glimpse of your personality without showing the grotesque, starving, slobbering, hideous monsters that are itching to unsheathe its fatal claws and spring on her. Surreptitiously hiding and suppressing all the possible yet cunningly undiagnosed anxiety, depression, bipolar tendencies, borderline symptoms, insomnia, paranoia, apathy, psychopathy, insanity, and the mixed-up mental maelstrom that’s rampaging and crashing internal systems within you as you forcefully laugh along with her and lock your glassy dead eyes upon her taunting stare; judging, scrutinising, analysing, like a blinded omniscient deity, all-knowing but never truly seeing.

So, how are you today? I’m fine, thank you. How’s school? It’s okay. How’s life? I’m doing great. How about your family? Four siblings, one parent, we’re all good. You are? I am completely fan-fucking normal. You’re supposed to fill in the blanks but it’s all multiple choice. Nothing but lost question marks, rising intonations, spat inflections, blah, blah, blah, and all the other prompted scripted questions, cliche and well-practised, disgustingly clean. The interrogation is designed to intimidate, blasting and shot off like machine gun rounds, jarring your senses, making you duck, tattering you with bullet holes. The professional iciness sending shudders down your spine, chills through your nerves, and profanities ricocheting off the back of your gritted teeth and lips. It’s nothing but insipid, asinine, fatuous inquiries that make you want to answer badly with a mockingly loud tonsil-performance yawn and a crooked middle finger raised proudly like your personal country flag.

But no. That’s unacceptable. And frankly, doing what you believe to be right at this point will get your foot sinking further in the shit you stepped upon. So you smile, faker than the reality you’re facing right now. Flash, flash, flash, smiles colliding against smiles, expert lies rolling smoothly off your numbed tongue like honey, and she’s the childish bumblebee suckling on the pistils and unwittingly getting corrupted by the words, your parasite infestation transferring under her skin without her consent. It’s hilarious, almost enough for you to drop your charade, but you fumble, fix your mask, and regain aplomb and composure, continuing to answer her with a placid expression that tells all but gives away none.

You know you’re a fantastic fucking actor, but somehow you still can’t help occasionally avoiding gazes and being at a loss for words and substituting lame sceptical replies for rational answers that never present itself in your mind. You try in vain to stop yourself from impulsively raising your jumper’s sleeves in trepidation of the idiot in front of you spotting the crisscrossed scars on your arms that cover your skin like a sculpture design and declare you a threat to yourself and legally wacko. You nervously making frenetic titchy motions and fiddling with your hands in order to prevent an oncoming thermonuclear meltdown from dislodging itself out of your suffocating throat. Suck it up, you can get through this. Stay calm, and countdown. One, two, three…

After what seems like an eternity of awkward silence and a gazillion fucking questions and omitted details and convoluted conversations, she finally sets down her pen and her scribble-filled paper and ends it. That will be all for today, thank you. No, thank you, you reply automatically like the perfect little demon you are. You amble away and let the door hit your ass on your way out, but before you carry on, you come to a halt at the doorway, grip the doorknob into a crushed metal lump, crane your stiff neck backwards a-la Exorcist, and ironically grin back at her just one last time, shockingly faker than your fucking will to live, a derisive leer that screams a silent “fuck you bitch, I’ll see you in hell”, and you finally saunter out, feeling no better, feeling even worse.

So you slowly walk back to class, half an hour late, plagued with clashing negative emotions and cynical thoughts, feeling more vindictive, more depressed, more fucked-up than usual, and ultimately wishing badly to slit the throat of the tattletale asshole who ratted you out. You’re hating yourself for no particular reason again and at the same time congratulating yourself victoriously because you successfully managed to deceive and manipulate someone who deserved no less and even more. You smile, but this time a twisted, deranged, maniacal one, undecipherable as either a smile of jubilance or a grimace of agony, but unsurprisingly realer than all the smiles you’ve ever outputted combined. You can breathe easy now. you can breathe now. You fucking did it.

But inside, your acidic guts still churn like a heavy washing machine load, and you’re unable to pull the plug, so you short circuit and burn out, and you head straight to the bathroom to try to put out the fire that’s threatening to spread in your body. You grasp the porcelain sink, splash water in your face, heave once, twice, thrice, but nothing comes out, only spit and empty tears, but not from sorrow, rather only from triggering and abusing your gag reflex. Within the furthest reaches of your mentality, you’re still rational, but it’s all discordant, damaged, deranged. It will take a miracle and another universe to salvage what’s left in that chaos. “Guidance counseling”, yeah fucking right. More like 30 minutes stuck in purgatory, sleeping with your worst nightmare screwing you against your goddamn will.

Your heartbeat finally slows after a while, and ragged breaths resonate from the tiled walls of the solitary room that you’ve confined yourself in as a temporary solace. You raise your head, touch the cold glass of the mirror, and shut your eyes once to blink away the fear, before you finally have the courage to look at yourself in the stained mirror. What returns your stare is a hollow vessel, all skin and bones and muscle and no soul, devoid of life, nullified of any joy, pessimistic, sunken, washed-out, sleepless, depleted, useless, tired as all fucking hell, uncaring, pathetic, apathetic, lost, cliche, inhuman. You know you’re fucked-up, too far gone, you’re not and you’ll never be o-fucking-kay, you get that, and that’s exactly why you hate being psychoanalysed. You sigh in defeat. It’s exhausting, pretending to be human.

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Filed under Prose