November 2020

The worst is when the Demons take over your mind. You sort of know it’s happening, you sort of want to fight it – for the sake of your child, for others… But deep down, all you really think about is letting it all go. Giving up. Resting. Not having to feel, not having to think. Not clenching your teeth, which have been aching since dawn from the constant tension in your jaw. I’m not myself. I can’t control my emotions – swinging between aggression and tears, which endlessly lick my face like they’re a being entirely separate from me. I have no control. Not over this, not over myself, not over anything. I don’t know how to take care of my mind anymore, because this is no longer me. The biochemical shifts in my brain have taken over, swallowed me whole. I’m drowning in this fucking numbness I’ll probably never get out of. I want to scream for help without a sound. Can anyone hear me?! I doubt it. All I hear is: “You bring these problems on yourself.” Maybe they’re right.

Honestly, I don’t know what’s worse – “The Man Who Left” during the hardest moment of my life, when I needed his scent more than anything, or me, slowly giving in, accepting whatever life throws at me: financial mess, the looming fear of a terrifying illness. “You’re great, but it’s also great without you.” Am I really that hopeless?! Probably. I’ve always felt like I don’t belong in this world. A world full of excess, illusion, and lies. Narcissistic arrogance. All that glitter for show – everything, and yet nothing that truly matters. I fell for the bait of attention. Me and my blind soul. Too bad the illness didn’t give a shit about my blindness. Fuck it.

I claw my way back up only to crash back into the shit again. Sometimes from high up – and they say: “Your energy and constant cheerfulness are impossible not to love.” Cute. Fucking great. Inside, it’s a total shitshow. Only I know it. And the doctor, who tries to save me with prescribed pills so I don’t hurt myself: “Please eat, for your brain.” I don’t want to eat. I just want to sleep. I can’t tell anyone. I whisper to my Beloved Furball: “Help me, help me survive! I think I want to live.” Bullshit. The only thing on my mind is how to disappear. But I can’t tell anyone. They’ll say I’m wallowing – because of the money problems, because of the maybe-real cancer, because someone who meant more to me than I wanted to admit left. Fuuuck-this-shit.