Everlong

"Get Me Outta This"

"Yes, I want to leave. You don't think I can? I can leave whenever I want. That's the point. Maybe that's an issue, actually. "

I never let her interrupt. I've been talking to my mother all evening, trying as hard as I could to get my point across. She doesn't want me to leave. Maybe because I'm her son and I provide happiness for her and my dad. If I left the house, I'd be all by myself, to deal with my future.

It is simply 'dealing' with my future. Most of my simple decisions so far in my life are going to effect my whole future. It's just how I expect it all to happen. Things will go bad, I'll decide to do something bad and then things will spiral out of control. Or, I'll learn from it. Actually, either way, I'll learn from it. I'll never do whatever I did, again. At worst, I'll learn from my mistakes, or die with not knowing right from wrong in certain occasions. Yes, I make good decisions. All of those late night, messed up, strange decisions may not be that great, though.

However, the best things I've made and decided happen at around 1:00. When my creativity and intellect come in. I draw things, write music, play music, and or scribble my brains out of my head after nightfall. Yes, I said it that way. Scribble my brains out. I'll violently place all of my thoughts onto the page. This book is mainly the product of late night thoughts.

My brain churns, twists around and pulls itself through it's other side. My thoughts cut through my skull, drip down my spine, and I shiver from the cold. My eyes widen, and my stomach goes sick. I stare at my hands, they're shaking, and there are my thoughts, in their color of cobalt, pooled in my hands. I look away. I blink a few times. I shake my hands. I tell myself that things aren't too great. That's one of my weaknesses, in the matter that I'm not positive, but realistic. I get up from my sitting position on the edge of my bed. It's 1:00 at night, everyone is sleeping, and I'm all alone. I stand there, looking at myself in the mirror. The shadows from the low lighting in my room give my face a strange look. My eyes are red, and there's a dark shadow against my cheek. I'm here with my brain, my being, and my actual body. They're all against each other though. My brain is trying to kill my body. I, as a human being, have given up. My brain nor body have given up though. Every morning, I wake up, alive, breathing. There's blood pumping through my veins. My body is trying to sustain all it has. My brain shares that passion also. The same passion that wants me alive.

I have no one to talk to, and I'm all alone. It's getting slightly comforting, and I honestly have no clue why. I think it's because I just simply have to deal with it every night. It's our of pure frustration, probably. It also sucks that I have no handle whatsoever on my emotions. They're running wild. It's now 2:30, and I've been awake for a long time. It's a shame because I haven't slept (well) in days, maybe weeks. It's a never ending cycle of either sleeping until 2:00 in the afternoon, or not sleeping at all. When I haven't sleep for quite some time, I get anxious. By anxious, I mean getting anxious. My arms get itchy and I scratch my wrists. I get migraines. I get jumpy and nervous. I may overreact. Then, I can accurately tell myself that I'm scared. It seems like I'll never sleep again, or hopefully fall asleep one night and not wake up in the morning. Both of those feelings shred up my brain a slight bit more.

Since it's 2:30 and I have school tomorrow, I should sleep. I do run better on less sleep, but not when I'm so sleep deprived that I can't think straight. I don't have insomnia, I am insomnia. Supposedly when people are sleep deprived, their depression and other mental illnesses come through strong. Depression and anxiety can even come from lack of sleep. Maybe my lack of sleep is killing me, or it might as well be. Maybe if I realized that I had this huge problem with insomnia when I was in the hospital, this could be fixed and over with. Then again, most of my issues work the same way. I guess I should've made them apparent before I fell into a deep hole of depression, anxiety, and everything else I have.

Finally, before I decide to lay back down in bed, I look at myself in my mirrors. They're those fancy closet door full length mirrors. I look myself in the eyes. There's tears running down my face that I hadn't noticed before. I knew I had been crying for a while, just from the redness in my eyes. They're bloodshot, and my face is beet red. I turn on my lights and look for some tissues. The tissues aren't going to do anything now. I look back at my eyes in the mirror. I have to say that I've never seen them so bloodshot. I've also never seen them looking so sad. I look down at the floor for a few moments, and back at my own face. I now understand how people can see the sadness in someone's eyes. My eyes look sad, beyond the fact that tears are still running down my face. Also, even with the lights on, my eyes are almost fully dilated, but completely glassy. I close my eyes for a few moments, but have to open them. They're stinging, and it just hurts to close them in general. Here's to another night of not sleeping, and not even getting some shuteye at all. Here's to another night of staring at the ceiling, crying, and not even knowing it.

Finally, I get up in the morning. Yes, it's 6 o'clock in the morning, and I'm exhausted. There is no way I'm going to make it efficiently through the day. Then again, today is like any other, telling everyone that I'm 'just tired' and that it totally wasn't because I stayed up all last night. I fell asleep for about an hour.

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It's summer now. I'm still alive, yes, and breathing. Well, maybe not alive, but when have I ever felt so? There's two bruises on one of my knees, and one on the other. I guess I can just use that as proof that I've left the house. I'm sitting at the kitchen table drinking some tea, and wearing one of the Westerner's old t-shirts. Her brother's ex gave it to her, and I guess I'm worthy enough of having it. Then again, we borrow each other's clothes left and right.

Recently, my family and I have been having issues. My mom doesn't know what to do because my dad doesn't know how to deal with our problems. I inherited a whole load of bad things. Depression, anxiety, insomnia, and everything else great. Maybe I'm not the one to blame for all of my issues, dad.

I've decided that I'm a starving artist. I've literally done everything to try to wedge my way into the art industry and I'm still young. Whether it was talking to the photographer merch dude at a Warped Tour tent or spending hours at art studios. And I still lay awake at night wondering why I'm here. I have so much art talent supposedly, and why am I not able to express it? It kills me. It really does. I feel like someone jammed me into a box and shut the lid tight with a lock. I'm no Houdini, so there's no way I'm getting out of this one.

Tonight, the Westerner spent the night at my house. We've been awake and talking, and my mother has been complaining about us talking too loud. She comes in my room, I have tears in my eyes, and the Westerner is sitting on the floor doodling on some paper like a true therapist/artist. She's been talking to me whilst I tear up, as she feels the need to say,

"...and yes, you do have so much to live for. And yes, things will get better. And most definitely, you need to stay alive."