The Problem is Me [EDITED)

Chapter 8

October, 2014

All in all today I’ve drank three cups of black coffee, got paint all over my favourite t-shirt and spoke a total of about two words. I have just as much knowledge of what happiness is as you do, but I’m pretty damn sure this isn’t anything close.

The upsetting part is that I don’t even like black coffee!

I somehow got roped into going to art class after I’d finished my school work earlier. I’ve never really been a huge art fan, I much prefer literature; I think it’s a lot more interesting and complex than a bit of paint splattered on a raggedy ass canvas.  I opted for flicking paint aimlessly at the canvas, resulting in half of it going on my Nirvana t-shirt.

I basically look like I’ve came out of one of Kesha’s music videos.

The task was to take what we were feeling in that moment and put it to paper, another one of those cliché coping mechanisms they got from a self-help book. As I’ve mentioned briefly before, I don’t really feel anything right now. I’m not happy but I’m not sad either, I’m not hurt nor am I gratified. I’m not broken but I’m far from all together. I don’t want to die, but I can’t seem to find the point of living anymore if that makes any sense.

An aspect of my condition that both brings me great power as well as great weakness is my limited ability to feel.

I’ve learned how to emulate emotion quite well though. How to make it seem like I’m feeling. But the truth of the matter is that I don’t. And whenever I do, the analogy that comes to mind is an echo in a large, empty, dark room.

What I’m trying to say here is that my emotions are as fake as Kim Kardashian’s ass.

Right now I could really do with washing down a bottle of aspirin with a fifth of vodka, maybe more depending on the day. God, I’m a miserable bastard aren’t I?

Believe it or not I have actually been drunk before. It was a few years back, I think I was maybe twelve or thirteen and one of the patients managed to sneak in a bottle of jack. They thought it would be funny to get one of the younger kids drunk; it didn’t work out too well for any of us. However, I am quite proud of the fact that I managed to get drunk in a mental hospital.

Yeah, they found us ‘surfing’ down the hallway on the medication trolleys.

More so than usual, I am incredibly angry at the moment; I just want to snap everyone’s fucking neck. If they knew, the doctors would say it’s because I haven’t been on my medication for almost three weeks as I mentioned before but that’s just a load of bollocks. I don’t need the pills, they don’t do anything for me and I’m honestly better off without them.

I think I’m doing a decent job at convincing the doctors I’m getting better; they haven’t been treating me like a fragile little china doll for a while. But don’t judge the situation as of yet, I haven’t finished explaining.

It’s not manipulation or anything like that. I see it as equal trade. I make the therapists want to make me happy, and in turn they’re happy. I make said people feel satisfied and give them a sense of accomplishment and in turn I get what I want, I give them a happiness that they wouldn’t have felt otherwise.

As the doctors may put it, a pill a day makes the manipulative thoughts go away! 

Now kids, let’s not forget that medication does not cure a mental illness.

This is mainly related to my friendship with a certain blonde, nervous bipolar kid. Although, I think I’m starting to like Evan’s company. He’s an okay person, tolerable even.