Manufactured euphoria,

Here I come.

You can't tame the wicked beast that rages on inside of you.

You are cold blooded.

You're a snake in the grass...

This Sense Of Oblivion

I think that I am coming to the conclusion that I am too fragile for this world. ... i think I have been for a very long time. I dont want to fight for my life anymore. I'm too defeated. I just want to breathe evenly and learn how to cry and clutch my teddy bear tight as I see the next ocean wave rising up in the sunset distance, praying that this wont be the one that takes me under.

Get high.

Stay high.

Live high.

Die high.

I have no purpose. I have no direction. I have no passion. I have no goals or aspirations. I have no potential. I have no motivation or drive. I have no money. I have no peace. I have no common sense. I have no music to play. I have nothing else to say.

The Real Me

My personality is riddled with eccentricities, passionate expressions, erratic displays, and abstract interpretations. It has always been this way. My unmedicated behavior has been described as excessive, erratic, explosive, and overwhelming.

For the first time ever, I want to try to stifle these elements of who I am. I want to suffocate  these personality traits that I am plagued with;  the things that draw unwanted attention and push others away.

This is one of the main purposes of my daily medication- to choke back the rushing waves of mania and manic-like behavior. But that means cutting off a part of me that I have learned to grow with and accept.  

I want to take these intense and frenzied traits that make me who I am and stuff them back inside of myself. I want to put a lid on them so they can never escape again. Only then can I hope to suppress the constant charge of white-hot electricity coursing through my body and become something more earthy and “normal” like the others.

I hate that it had to come to this. I hate that I was left with no choice other than to follow the rules that the masses set out before me in order to blend in enough to pass for what is considered “normal.” I've never been normal. I never wanted to be normal. Forcing myself into the boundaries and solid guidelines of societal normalcy feels like I am hiding myself away from the world when wearing my heart on my sleeve makes me feel like I can soar.

But it must be this way. The past few years have shown me that being “myself” has grave consequences from myself and those around me. 

I remember when I was younger, before I knew that there was anything severely wrong with me, my life was passion-driven and exciting. Everyone around me (including myself) brushed off my enthusiasm, eccentricism, and my thrill-seeking behaviors as simply being a “party girl.” During this time I was attending university and getting good grades so there was no real reason for concern as far as anyone could tell. I was just “wild” and a “risk-taker.” I was just a “fun-loving druggie.” But such relatively harmless descriptors turned sour and led to a dark world of loss of control, consequence, and regret. These personality traits became mixed with mental illness and obsession and turned dangerous for me and everyone around me. I became a constant source of fear and worry to many people in my life. 

I am stuffing the “real” me back into a jar and keeping her hidden inside of myself. The real me has lost the little bit of self-control she used to have. The real me has lost the ability to recognize boundaries and abide by them. The guidelines in which she used to live her life have broken down. The real me has rotted in hell.

Nobody wants the real me

…

Not even I.

I closed my eyes and leaped from the ledge, ready to fly and soar into the clear blue sky.

Little did I know...

My wings had been clipped.

I now fear nothing but myself.

My PTSD song.

He made a mistake:

He left me alive and kicking.

This piano piece is very important to me.

The most common method of suicide worldwide is hanging.

Suicide Article

Below is an interesting, enthralling, and morbid article about famous and unique suicides.

https://allthatsinteresting.com/famous-suicides

*WARNING: Graphic gore content: Budd Dwyer footage.

For some reason, they left out Christine Chubbuck. 

You’re So Analytical

 I want you to take your things, pack them up, and move out of my head. But after all this time, I have come to learn that is impossible. So here you stay, making yourself comfortable, putting your feet up on my office desk and taking in the sight of the most personal parts of my life.

They said I couldn’t form a relationship with you. They ripped you from my hands that never grasped you in the first place. I was never a danger to you or those around you. I was sick with mental illness for the first time in my life and I had somehow become convinced that you had the answers to all my burning, vital questions. If these questions were left unanswered, they prevented me from understanding myself, what was happening to me, what had happened to me, and how to interpret anything going on around me.

For some unknown reason, my mind became fixated on the idea that I would be able to make sense of my new life and mind with you and through you. I was sure you could crack my code. You’re so analytical, after all.

I just had to get close enough to you to be your colleague as we began to peel back the layers of my psychology and dive headfirst into my malfunctioning neurochemistry.

I ordered all my mental health records including all the inpatient records, the intensive outpatient, and the partial hospitalization records. I poured over them every day for months, scrutinizing every detail. I became obsessed with trying to put together the jigsaw puzzle that is my broken mind. It suffices to say that I did not find the answers that I was looking for. Pieces of the puzzle remained missing and others were the wrong shapes carelessly jammed into the wrong places. I combed through every word, naively hoping that I would be able to solve my Rubik’s cube of acute mental illness.

My insomnia increased. I became more irritable. I ordered a vast amount of psychology and cognitive behavioral neuroscience textbooks to study my own medical records from a clinical point of view.  I put together two binders of my own behavioral health medical records which were rigidly organized and kept. The truth is that I had just barely reached some sort of stability as I began to drive myself mad again.

In this frenzied desperation, my obsession with you developed and intensified. I had never been obsessed with anyone or anything before in my life. This was a new symptom of my mental illness. You were a mental health professional. If anyone had the answers, it had to be you, right? I have no idea why I became obsessed with you or what triggered it. It was and is an unfortunate event without reason.

I do not know if you will ever read this. But if you do, I want you to know that I am sorry…

I don’t have anything more to say. This piece ends without resolution.

Hate me.

I can't pay attention to any type of television at all and other forms of distraction seem fruitless. I won’t allow myself to simply listen to music because it gives my mind too much space to think and drift about. 

And that terrifies me.

In this state, I can’t give my mind any space to wander or else my evil thoughts will reach up and drag me down into the dark abyss below.