Everything is spinning. Awful. A storm in my room that makes no sound and damages only me. My mind. The innermost parts of me that keep me breathing and feeling. The medicine is very selective about when to actually work; though now I am remembering that it's for weekdays only. But not much could've stopped me earlier, when I what I needed, and then more, in case.
I want to sleep. Today was okay. This week, in summary, was fucked. Meds and doctors and blood and stand-ups and I can't even breath anymore. The weirdest part is that I don't hate myself, or know of anyone who hates me, but I still want to bang my head against a table until my skull cracks open. My cries for attention were heard but now I wish I had just been silent.
I thought I was okay in the morning. I made pancakes, did laundry, and served my sister her breakfast in bed, because I was so nice. Then I got in the shower, and started to pace. Two steps, back and forth, one, two. A dance. One, two, turn. Two, one, turn. Over and over until I was slipping in the water and wondering if anyone could hear me cry. One, two, and fall.
And I was better. Cleaner, certainly. It's better if I clean, because then I can get some motivation, and maybe be able to relax later. I played pick-up with my friends, and won, and was happy, until I wasn't. And then I wanted to do math, and write, until I didn't. It's such an up-down cycle. High or low, or nothing at all.
It's night. The drops don't work. They're supposed to add chemicals to my brain until I can develop them more naturally. I think it'll take a while longer, because it has to start from nothing. I never sleep. That's the thing, isn't it? I do and I don't. I'm in bed by nine, eight, seven. I'm asleep by ten, eleven, twelve, one, two. And then I'm up again at three, and asleep at four. Again at five, for half an hour. And six there's no going back to sleep because school demands my presence. The world needs my cooperation.
I told my friend this, and she laughed, and said she would actually kill myself. I told another about my family, and they said the same. That's the point, I said, a half-joke. That's the point, and still no one gets it, and they hide the sharp objects and steer the conversation. I have to live. Even if I would actually kill myself, I can't.
So this is a sad one. I was hoping I could think of something happier, but it works? Happy endings suck anyway. If you accept a job across the country, you have to take it, no matter who confesses their love last minute. It's not personal, just business. If you feel sad, you write depressing shit to read later and cringe. It's not lame, it's emo. Or so I'm told.
