ing ing ing 

a nervous tick

your foot tapping 

your legs shaking 

ing ing ing

stop it

your hands on your face 

teeth on nail

take a breath, be still

break the norm

don’t conform 
sitting silenty

screaming internally

oh now you care 

suddenly
go away

I found my way

fuck this day

I’m okay
I see a psychiatrist

I don’t need therapy

I take pills

They’re poison to me 

time

I don’t have the energy to write 

But here I am as I type

The city’s asleep

The shadows are deep

Fast forward rewind

It’s about time

Time for your time

Penance for your crime

I don’t owe you a dime

blurs

I have flashes. I have memories with missing pieces like a 1,000 piece jigsaw puzzle that I can’t make out. I call them my blurs. The parts of my life where I’m not sure what happened and I don’t know why. Sometimes I’m not sure if my blurs are real. I’m not sure if they’re a dream or if they actually happened. It should scare me but it confuses me more than anything.

I remember a lighthouse.  I must have been 5 or 6. It was on the Oregon Coast and it was white. There was no one there but my family and I. Round stones were scattered and piled up around it. Then there’s a blur. I’m at a white painted house. I don’t know how. I don’t know where.  I’m by myself. There are people standing in the doorway talking and I don’t exist to them. 

It’s like when Harry Potter goes back in time after discovering Tom Riddles past. He’s viewing a memory like he’s in a movie but no one can see him. No one can hear him. That was me. Invisible. I don’t know if this is a dream I had when I was younger. I don’t know if it’s a memory. I don’t know if it’s real. I don’t know why I remember it in detail. 

I asked my parents about the white lighthouse, the stones, the white painted house. They brushed it off and avoided it saying “we went to lighthouses all the time when you were little.. it could’ve been anything”

It could’ve been anything? 

It could have been anything. 

lovely 

Victorian skies, violet eyes, daring lies

Stolen money, it’s kinda funny

I don’t give a damn honey 
Lose yourself, lose me too

Come back to find the truth 

No one’s here but you and me 

We’re fucked up

At least we’re free 
Candle light, broken kites, turn left, turn right 

Light my cigarette  

Take another step

You’re here, take flight 
Smoke a bowl with me

Call me fragile, call me baby

I know I’m crazy but fuck

You’re amazing 
Grab another pre-roll

Let’s get fucking stoned lovely 

Pass it til we’re high lovely 

Until you get better

He told me he wanted me to get better

If I need to get better, then I’m broken right? Is mental illness curable? I don’t think mental illness ever goes away. And I’m talking about the people who have legitimate mental illnesses. Not someone who was labeled as being clinically depressed because they payed a visit to a therapist because they were having a rough time for a little bit. People say “everyone gets depressed” and damn fucking right they do. But not constantly consistently overwhelmingly. That’s when you have a mental illness.

It’s when taking a shower for the first time in a few days is an accomplishment. It’s when you’re proud of yourself for getting out of bed before 5pm because you couldn’t stand to move earlier. It’s when the bad thoughts are a thunderstorm in your mind. It’s when everything you’re scared of hurting you or of leaving does. It’s being absolutely terrified and having no desire to move on. It’s being unable to leave the house unless you’re with your boyfriend because you’re terrified. It’s being terrified. Of everything. 

“Calm down.” 

“Calm down.”

I’m kicking my legs and his voice is stern. “Breathe Allison” he says. 

My gasps for air turn into a slow whimpering as I bury my face into his chest and let my tears flow. 

I love him. I’m terrified of losing the best part of my life because of my mental illness.

Because sometimes I’m a moody bitch, half the time I’m a mess, and it’s unusual if I don’t cry at least three times a day.

I know I need to have faith in myself, be myself, believe, try to get better, be optimistic, etc. But most of me is screaming that it’s bullshit. It’s screaming that it’s too hard. That I can barely pull myself out of my bed in the morning so how in the fucking hell am I going to be able to do this. How can I do this? How. 

steady

steady, can’t keep my arms heavy

I wanna fight back gotta pull the trigger

I tried to breathe but I couldn’t stay steady

Steady, can’t keep my arms heavy

Dark as the Navy skies 

Feels like I’m underground 

Feels like I won’t be found 

I’m an underdog

Endless fog 

I can’t 

Pull the trigger

kinda feeling the day

No one told you who you were, so you relied on thoughts. Your self imagery screaming at you, telling you how fucked up you are, how much you need to lose weight, how choosing the wrong people is good. The people you knew brought you further down. You weren’t good enough for your dad and your depressed mother became even more depressed. So you thought, “It’s all my fault.”. Your siblings weren’t “problem children” like you were. You weren’t good enough for them. You weren’t ever good enough. Not for your friends. And when you found someone who you thought was right, they tore you apart. Love is a vulnerable thing. It’s pulling yourself to pieces in front of another person, it’s letting them see anything. And then they fucking destroy you and they’re gone. Because everyone leaves. So you looked at your scarred wrists and decided to cut again. You needed a different kind of pain to mask what you had already felt from other people. I have a tendency to hurt myself when people hurt me. I can be a bitch but when I get hurt, it always feels like my fault. Everything does. This was a story about someone else and I realized I was writing about myself. What am I, 9 months clean for alcohol? Around that number. I haven’t taken a drink in 9 months and I’m still an alcoholic. I still think about drinking and I want to do it to kill my pain. But by killing my pain, I almost killed myself. The last time I drank I ended up in the ER at 2am thrashing and screaming, in and out of consciousness. I almost died that night. That whole night is a blur. My blood alcohol content level was through the roof and my parents wouldn’t even tell me what it was. My parents didn’t talk to me for weeks after that happened. I have to leave the apartment to pick up my boyfriend from work and then probably smoke a bowl or two before I’m on here again. Night