Sunday, September 22, 2013

no diggity.


I no longer need you to fuck me as hard
as I hate myself.
Make love to me
like you know I am better than the worst thing I ever did.
Go slow. 
I'm new to this
but I have seen nearly every city from a rooftop without jumping.
I have realised
 
that the moon did not have to be full for us to love it.
We are not tragedies
stranded here beneath it.
 
—Buddy Wakefield

Tonight - like most nights I spend alone - I will swallow sleeping pills instead of a proper dinner and go to bed with a hot water bottle and something to cover my thighs (they disgust me). I will avoid telling anyone how much this physically hurts because verbalising the pain doesn't change it, and in the end, there is nothing left to say except: just keep going, I'll get better one day, I know it's hard but I promise it'll be worth it (all of which sound like complete bullshit when my mind is in complete chaos). The truly terrifying thing is that it's my perception of reality that is wrong, distorted, completely controlled by my mental illness. To live or die is not an objective situation, it is very much black and white...
Instead of brochures like this, they should make information packs about how to be friends with someone who feels this way; how to feel and what to do when you get tired of it all yourself. I am well accustomed to loving the leaving; and if there's one thing I know, it's that it fucking hurts.

Excerpt from an TV series Fringe that sums it up perfectly...

PETER: Maybe I never gave it enough thought - what Walter went through. I only every saw it from my own perspective. His being crazy was something he did to us. To my mother and me.
It wasn’t something that happened to him
OLIVIA: Well, you were young
PETER: Well, I’m not young anymore. Must be a terrible thing to not be able to trust your own mind
 
1 . 2 . 3.