Psyches

Psyches

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WpMetadataNoticeLast published Tue, May 31, 2016
I remember the stench of death, the misery, the sick, the pain, The Black Death 14th century. Am I dead? I remember the beauty, the books, the art, the people, The Renaissance 14-17th century. What's my name? I remember running barefoot through the misty forest, the Salem witch Trials 17th century. How old am I? I remember the machines, the chemicals, The Industrial Revolution 18th century. Where am I? 1821 The Greek Revolution I get up. 1942 World War II My legs move. 1965, the marches, Martin Luther King Jr. I feel dizzy, my feet collapse. 1986 noise, people, lights, Queen's last tour, The Magic Tour. I black out again. Where do all this memories come from? Where are my original ones?
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"There comes a point where you no longer care if there's a light at the end of the tunnel or not. You're just sick of the tunnel." - Who I am doesn't matter. How I got here doesn't matter. What matters now is I'm getting help, right? That's what they tell me here. They tell me that the road to recovery feels like a terrible butt fuck, but the fact that you're on the path to begin with, is all that matters. So as I sit in this circle of fuck ups, I realize just how different I am from them. I didn't attempt suicide because my mother was a crack addict who didn't want me. My father wasn't abusive. I didn't have a sibling die in a car accident. I was never really bullied either. I attempted suicide because, for the first time in years, I thought I had found something that could make me feel again... and after not feeling much at all for far too long, perhaps I went a bit overboard

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