i don't really feel like fighting.

how to save a life.

my Brain almost made me leave, almost caused friends and family to grieve the loss of someone who was still there, caught beneath the lack of belief. but for now, i think it's safe to say that neither Brain nor i are leaving soon, so i suppose we must try and understand what each other are about. i've been figuring out our differences for a while: i understand that Brain prefers to freestyle, but it doesn't work for me when it leaves me in mobile. i'd appreciate if we could reconcile, so that we can work together on this new lifestyle, towards which it's become very hostile. let's be honest, together we could compile something worthwhile, because let me tell you, when my Brain isn't so busy keeping a low profile,it's shown it can be pretty versatile. good company sometimes; but then it runs a mile. why does it do that-- two steps forward, and one step back?

excuse me while i break it down; sorry, i mean while i have a breakdown. banging my head against a wall used to be an expression, these days it's a mechanism to cope with the aggression, the obsession, the depression. that sure is manic, volcanic, at times satanic-- the hellish look in my eyes when it's time to panic. as my subconscious and conscious scramble to establish a more attuned dynamic, there comes an emotional pain so intense i use physical pain in self-defense.

see, anxiety and depression are my friends, the kind who are always there for you, but like to embarrass you in public too. i've learned when they come knocking, you let them in, make a cup of tea, sit with them-- that's how i win. i've tried to push them away before, but they've taught me i can't live without them, through lessons that use force. so now i let them stay, allow emotion to spill out in any way that feels natural that day-- cry and scream, cut and scratch, tremble and shake, because to fit in any positive feelings, first i have to make room, expel the negative however i see fit. and then when i'm ready, i'll resume, weaker in the moment, sure, but after all, money can't buy the strength you exude. money also can't buy happiness-- that's what they say, but what's absolutely terrifying is when nothing can, not even the love of my loved ones. that challenged my decision to stay.

growing up, my lucky number was two, since someone said "with two you're never lonely." i believed it to be true. until i realized you can be lonely with two, two hundred, two million-- you can be sitting in a room with many multiples of two, and still feel that you have only you.

my body is a prison, with a chief that won't listen. i'm an innmate for life, no chance for escape plans to come into fruition. people look at me like they can catch it-- maybe they can--but i'd argue it's more likely

that they don't understand. if only they understood that they don't understand. that would lend more of a helping hand than wrapping me in bubble wrap and sending me into a secure room where i can be scanned.

i'm not mental, they're judgmental. i'm not mentally ill-- i'm mentally intriguing. and there's something very beautiful about being mentally intriguing. and i'm not talking about how sometimes i forget how to breathe in without counting. i mean the ability to tap into another dimension that some people will only ever dream in. see, stability is comfortable, but also restricting. and soundness of mind is reassuring,

but also limiting. plus, when i'm mentally intriguing, i know how to behave. trying to act normal feels like someone turned up gravity, and it's sucking me through the floor, into an early grave. maybe i see the world through fanatical eyes, or maybe some only open theirs up to desirable skies. the brain is the most powerful tool you own, which is why the enemy fights you there, because it's where it gets you alone-- Brain or Heart is never a question.

i feel upside down, and the wrong way around during any social encounters. how can i feel everything and nothing within one breath? how can i feel empty, yet simultaneously as heavy as my dad's eyelids after a bottle of red? how can i want to live one minute and the next, be plotting my own death? my body's exhausted, ready to sleep, but the memo didn't make it to Brain. maybe the problem is that it's midday and i'm forcing myself to sleep. and not because i'm tired, but so something may have changed when i awake, to pull me out of this whimpering heat, that seemingly there is no reason for me to be in.

my body feels stronger than it should ever have had to be, yet still i'll speak to you with the honesty of a child, if with the delicacy of one is how you treat me. if i was screaming because i trapped my finger in the door, it would be easy to feel sympathy. but trapped inside my own head? your instinct is to criticize and flee. just please try to imagine feeling so anxious that the sound of someone parting their lips makes you feel you could rip your eardrums out with ease. or that the texture of loved ones' words makes you bite your cheek, because they torment your teeth. or that your clothes touching you the wrong way will leave you twitching for weeks. oh, i'm not mad at you, i'm mad at my irrational response, and at myself, for allowing my life to become this bleak.

someone else's inspiration to live-- "suicide is selfish"-- it's not an opinion. it's wrong. what's selfish is expecting someone to live for you when their pain is excruciating, and they feel they can't stay longer. if i hear someone saying "there's no need to cry," i lose my fucking mind, because if there was no need to cry, why would our bodies insist that we do it? when i can't let people touch me, the familiar tears stroke my cheeks and tell me it's okay. sometimes i get excited, and my body panics, because it takes these foreign feelings the wrong way. when i consider being more to someone than a passing thought, i know i can't commit to that, so i'll pull away.

beautiful minds with the ability to travel anywhere without moving-- why does mine travel to such a gloomy place? when i don't hesitate on a bridge, i've won a race. when oxygen i need to survive suffocates me, i feel like i belong in outer space. i am rough around the edges and twisted in the middle, my language is encrypted, and my actions are as confusing as riddles. autopilot is not an option when your memory is fickle. when it's bad, i forget how good it gets, so when it's good, i forget how bad it gets. i'm wary of good, because how bad the ensuing crash will be leaves me in suspense-- it's like a sixth, seventh, eighth sense for things that don't need to be sensed.

i think too much to be logical, but writing makes me feel happy. no, writing makes me feel full. so i load my pen with pain, and i feel. because this is what happens when mental intrigue reaches fever pitch: we create something that makes the pain appealing. and there's something to be said for a rhyme to help people believe that something is real.

i realized it is okay to ask for help, even if it means waking someone up. self-sabotage is enticing, but it is a relief when someone interrupts. see? two steps forward and one step back is not awful. it is still one step forward. so i take the bad with the good, and i embrace my disordered and awkward. because i've made it through another night. progress is progress, regardless of how slight.