Morbid Ways of an Author

I will receive no re-evaluation, because “it will not determine any diagnoses”, “will not help as much as medication will”, and “enlarging the dosage will not enhance any symptoms”.

It really doesn’t help, it doesn’t. It has only made me fatter, it has only made me tired and disoriented, it has made me panic because my arms have gone numb, it has made me want to kill myself, it has worsened the urge to commit suicide so much I couldn’t walk up stairs or steep hills because the want to throw myself down to just feel something was too great.

The medicine has worsened the pain in my joints, ruined too many days for me to count, and it only took away the hurt only for me to be incapable to feel anything any more.

All this has led me to nightmares worse than any thoughts of damnation could have been if only I had had any religious faith to speak of.

It has led my own mother to alienating me, led my father to only whisper about me behind closed doors, behind my back.

I don’t know what kind of good my psychologist is talking about any longer, my nights have becone longer, things that had immense impact on me before doesn’t even raise a reaction.

It has all gotten worse now that the flashbacks are present again. But not even talks about them makes her change her mind about evaluation, I have no way of convincing her.

Panic attacks, oh that’s kust your depression talking, flashbacks, that’s the stress confusing you, I don’t know what’s real any more, you did say your anti-psychotics made you confused, nightmares and wishes of death, oh, the pressure of moving back with your father, I don’t even care about school I feel like it doesn’t matter, that’s just because you want to work.

Nothing, nothing, I threw at her helped. I lied to her, I said I hadn’t self harmed, I told her that I feel like killing myself, though, and she watched me cry and sniff like a baby, but her solution was more pills, higher dosage, let’s meet next week.

It’s like we’re speaking two different languages, like she was agreeing with me all along but did the complete opposite of what we had deemed the correct course of action.

The only thing I could do was looking at the hole in the wall behind her, agonise over its existence until we said good bye without nothing but another appointment and a flippant promise to talk to my doctor about my blasted dosage.

I’m nauseous, in panic, and I’m meeting my mum and brother for a late lunch. I’m supposed to talk to Mr. ‘I can’t deal with depressing things’ who I cannot, for the life of me, talk to about things.

Tomorrow I’m meeting someone who has had one of the hardest couple of years I have ever heard of, and I’m supposed to accompany him when he finally says goodbye to those memories, when the chapter is finally over and the words wrung out completely. I am supposed to witness that when I’m having trouble leaving my room to take a posse because of my separation anxiety.

I don’t even know how things are supposed to work, I have no idea how to go about social behaviour, the right way to lead one’s life.

I can’t even write about what’s happened to me, and people expect me to talk.

I’ll have a date with my vodka tonight, on an empty stomach, and hopefully, later, when some alcohol has been consumed, an even more vacant mind.

For all the things you cannot touch, there is a flame slowly growing in strength, for every problem left unexplored, that fire burns a whole city of ideas.

I just wanted to write stories, teach children, and be loved. I hope my emotional detachment grows greater, I wish it would smother every lingering thought of feeling anything ever again.


About thezonesystems

Former miserable, confused teenager - now sad and confused trans adult(ish)
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