Diary of a schizophrenic

Entry Four

10.9.2013

Dear Diary,

The past days have been pretty much the same. Room-class-dinning-room/hall/thingy with food -room. Nothing more, nothing less. My parents have been calling me twice a day -very unexpected- just to see if I committed suicide. Which I have and now I’m writing to you from my grave. YOLO.

I do think I should apologize now for future irregular and boring entries. My life is all but interesting. Sure being schizophrenic has its perks (joke) like seeing impossible things but really when even that is taken from you, you’re just like the rest. Boring.

But I’m fine being just that. It’s all I ever wanted, I think. Or what others wanted.

Since I am supposed to write feelings in here I might give that a try. I’m doing partially good. I can’t help but feel incomplete; like there’s a hole inside of me which is accurate since the schizophrenia is a part of my true self. Mental illness is incurable unfortunately. It sticks to you like nasty herpes and honestly, I can’t tell which is worse.

Probably the herpes.  

Oh for fucks’ sake I’m comparing schizophrenia with herpes. I need friends, pronto.

How is writing supposed to help me take my mind of off this? It’s only making me think more and more until even over-thinking becomes an understatement. My life has been all but relief. All of my life I’ve been on the edge. Not the good adrenaline filled edge. The one where I’m constantly being held up by a thin thread via my parents and other adults that seem to think I’m a fragile porcelain doll.

On the contrary, I’m made of metal.

I can only fuss about my impossibly unexplainable feelings rather than writing them down. It’s fucking harder than it looks if you want it to be precise and glorious and not some five-year-old bullshit.

I’m fine - thanks, don’t bother asking again; ever again.

I choose not to write about my emotions since they’re as unclear to me as they are to you, so to make up for it I write about my shitty daily adventures.

Just about today I had Art History about the fine lives of devious baroque artist. My lifeline seemed to have vanished alongside the baroque sanity. I was getting more and more anxious to get out of the lecture; my eyes dancing around the place like marbles. I was straight on losing my nerves because of the tiny voice that barely escaped the petite Professors mouth.

As before, I ended up in the cafeteria afterwards, showing pieces of chocolate pudding in my dehydrated mouth while reading Brave New World.  

Oh, what is my life but a poem?

I think I’m going to go sleep now. It’s ten to midnight and I have classes at eight tomorrow. Like the baby I am, I need my eight hours.

Update: the bed still feels unattractive. I was hoping proximity would help but it’s pushing me away as if I’m a filthy love affair.