Life Vs. Illness

MARKUS, 2

Hey journal, I guess no one will listen but I had a good day. Well... by good I mean I didn't think about more than five ways I could commit suicide (just three by the way) and that my note would be more than six paragraphs for my mother. At least I think that's good, I mean she'd enjoy more than just two paragraphs of suffering. Every word would just be a hoax of my thoughts on paper for her. If I wrote anymore though it'd be full of even more lies but I think that she'd deserve that also. I don't often say anything about her because it just makes me loathe my life even more. Maybe if I forgive myself for what happened then I can stop hating myself, after all I wasn't born with my problems.

I Realize I get off track, at best I'm a sloppy inefficient writer. Who cares though, literally, who would ever want to dig my pity party journal and read through every damn event that I feel is important because it made me feel like I had a sliver of hope that I can be normal and every care free teenager? Because even if they try everyone who knows me thinks of me as the weird emo freak who doesn't know how to speak. And I don't know how to speak, or stand up for myself, or be confident like the football team or try like the mathematicians. Every episode of my life should be The Walking Dead, just when everything is getting stable all hell breaks loose after a satisfying or blissful event.

Speaking of the event making my unavailing life rendered useful for only 10 minutes is my brother. I love my brother David, he's only done pure good and wants it that way for everything on earth. But because he wants the best for everyone the larger force always has to 'balance it out'. After a major accident (caused by yours truly) he started talking to himself a lot. So often that we just figured he had an imaginary friend. My father and I thought this because it was ten years ago when this all started. He was six at the time and we would never think of it as a problem, just an imaginary friend because just like me today he had no one to talk to.

Eight years later after his first day of high school is when I knew something was wrong. After those eight years I had always gotten used to his senseless rambling but today was different, the voices became...hostile. It was thirty minutes after I had gotten home from school and seconds after the food I had cooked cooled off. I could hear the haunting words through the screen door of our less than humble abode.

"NO!'

"STOP!"

"IM NOT!"

I looked up from the table and saw the crying freshmen burst through the doorway and head to his room when the profanities started.

"NO FUCK YOU!"

"STOP ASSHOLE!"

In the middle of the living room I intercepted him and placed my hands on his shoulder and asked him, "David what's going on"

"SHUTUP SOMEONES TALKING TO ME, nothing I'm fine I think, no, I don't know, yes I am, I'm not sure."

The frantic mess of words took me aback as he started explaining how the voices could be right, maybe he was worthless. I stopped my brother immediately and yelled for my dad to get the car started because I knew we had to head to an urgent care center or something of the sorts.

"They keep saying I'm worthless, help. PLEASE! Maybe they're right, I'm a mes-"

"NO, no you're not buddy you tell them to shut up."

My words of encouragement continued from the living room, throughout the car ride, and ended in the waiting room of the Stanford Psychiatric Care Center. If it wasn't for my Dad's pure knowledge of everything we may have been at the local hospital waiting for an hour. And even though he knew this he would always blame himself for not going sooner. I think the thought crossed his mind and that's how he knew but he just denied it inside his head. And I understand that, after the accident and obvious divorce, and every disaster after the next. But after that day when his own son was diagnosed with disorganized schizophrenia, I think it broke his mind a slight bit.