Dear Diary

I wrote in my old journal today. Here is an excerpt from it referencing the change that happened in 2009, from happy to miserable:

"I went to an asylum in early 2009. Got off the Tramadol I was addicted to because it was causing psychosis and had the best 2/3rd of a year ever. I was happy. Me. Happy. Then something changed. What, I cannot say. No horrific trauma. No death. No nothing. It happened within hours. My life was changed from then on. Now I'm angry. I'm so fucking angry and confused. I deserved to be happy after all I went through. My joy was ripped away with no reason. I wonder what I did wrong. What sin I am paying for. What did I do that was horrible enough to merit such a punishment? The misery itself is enough, but coupled with the brief taste of happiness...this truly must be hell."

How melodramatic. But, that doesn't make it true. I'm still horribly confused, and I feel that I will stay that way my entire life.

I've been taking a lot of medicine lately. I just want to sleep. When I'm not asleep I'm high. Then I go back to sleep. But now I can't sleep because I've slept so much. These hours are truly horrific.

But as I look back through the earlier pages of my journal, back in 2007, I realize these days will one day be a memory too. One day it will all be over and I can finally live. I'll look back on my entries and...maybe laugh, maybe cry, but it doesn't matter. What matters is that this will be gone.

Well, I came awful close to suicide last night. Felt horribly cold on the inside. I can't fucking wait until this medication works. I only seem to be getting worse.

I find it unfair that I have to act normal. That I have to go about with life while I'm falling apart. It's all External Me's fault. She makes it to where no one sees how much pain I'm in. Well they should see. But she won't let down her guard. I just want to run screaming into the night but she'd never allow it. Someone with a physical disease can stay home, show their pain, bitch and moan {I would know, I have that too}, but for someone like me people say to suck it up and carry on. I have Fibromyalgia, TRAPS {extremely rare and painful} Poly Cystic Ovarian Syndrome, and a bunch of other fucking diseases. I'd rather feel the pain a million times over if I could just have my sanity. The mental issues are a thousand times worse than any physical pain I've felt. {and I've felt some of the worst}

I can't even clean my fucking room. There are gnats everywhere. I can barely see the floor. I have a narrow spot to sleep on my bed because of all the shit on it. Every time I feel well enough to clean I get depressed again and it gets filthy. It's futile. I'm just sit at night and wait to die. In the day External Me takes over and fakes being happy for me, but at night it's a nightmare. I'm getting worse. I don't know what to do anymore.

In a few minutes I'll be barely conscious, so I thought I'd do a quick little post because why not?

I had my first cello lesson today. I look forward to completely frustrating my teacher with my inability {would you believe I typed unabilify?} to read music due to my dyscalculia. I have a strong musical ear, though.

I had the strong urge to off myself today, despite external me having a real time. I felt empty and cold on the inside. The second I wasn't occupied with something I wanted to string myself up from the ceiling. She's such a bitch, doing that all the time.

Last night I thought I might die. My 200mg of Seroquel made me so unbearably sedated. I stood up and couldn't walk. I stumbled around my room a bit before going in to sleep with my mother, telling her to watch me incase I stop breathing. The only reason I DIDN'T want to stop breathing was mother. I couldn't do that to her. It would crush her. If it wasn't for her I would have offed myself long ago. I wonder what happens after you die. I suppose that's another reason, fear of the unknown.

I'm starting to feel less of a connection to people. I'm separating the personalities even more so. External me can have her relationships, her hobbies, her emotions, but I don't feel them very strongly at all. It's like I'm wearing bubblewrap around me. If someone touches me in said bubblewrap, I can barely feel it. Things cease to thrill me. Her emotions are so shallow. I wish I could feel them, though.

Sigh. When will this medication kick in? I just want to sleep now. I'm bored with everything.

Fare-thee-well.

EDIT: Holy shit please don't think I'm killing myself or something. I re-read this and that's what it sounds like, sort of. No, I am not killing myself. Rest easy.

Rose, Rose, Rose Red

This is what inspired her name. The particular lyric is "For this freedom, I have given all I had, for this darkness I gave my light. For this wisdom, I have lost my innocence. Take my petals and cover me with night."

Baby's First Visual Hallucination

Good god that was terrifying. Allow me to set it up;

I was all dressed up and walking around the pool on the Midnight Hour as usual, having olfactory hallucinations as usual, everything was so usual. No nerves, no fear, nothing. I was feeling particularly well. I was looking out at our woodsy back yard when I saw it. A gigantic, white, {hooded?} figure moving slowly yet quickly in front of the trees. I stopped dead in my tracks and stared, and when I did it turned into leaves. I gasped, turned, and bolted inside. I ran upstairs to tell mother. She told me it was probably my mediation making me sleepy. I told her I wasn't very sleepy at all and this was a very obvious hallucination. She said everything would be fine and that I should go to sleep. Oh, I forgot to mention {this is a bit funny}, when I told her, she clutched her covers, eyes widened and said "...that's spooky."

The figure itself wasn't all too horrifying. The situation was. Seeing something that's not there...I can't even explain it. Especially alone outside at night. But I saw it so clearly, it moved so swiftly and obviously. It moved like it knew I was watching. I cannot explain that, I'm sorry.

I'm taking a pill, you bet your life I am. I can't handle this sort of thing as sober as I am. What do I do? What comes next? I'm obviously getting worse. First the delusions, then the olfactory hallucinations, then the auditory hallucination, and now I'm fucking seeing things!? What is wrong with me? Why am I like this? I've turned into someone from a movies I used to watch! I used to see "crazy" people on TV and it all seemed so distant from my life. But it crept up on me. Slowly, like a plague. I suppose it really can always get worse, can't it? I can only imagine what's next. I hope I don't lose my self awareness, my self-control. I don't want to be a babbling lunatic. God, I hope this Seroquel works. I don't want these hallucinations to combine. What if they come closer? What if they speak to me? No, no! I can't have that! I just can't! I would fling myself off a bridge!

My dear Army, hope this mediation works. Down with Rose-Red!

Fare-thee-well.

Kill Bill

My grandfather likes to piss me off. What an angst-y, teenager thing to say, right? But ask any member in my family. He likes attention. He is addicted to my negative attention. Like I said, ask the rest of my family. He will come into the room I'm in and fuck with me.

He's really someone I want dead. Rose-Red wants him dead. I really scared him just now. We got in some fight that he took too far {with my grandmother repeatedly telling him to stop} and I started screaming, "SHE'LL KILL YOU. SHE. WILL. KILL. YOU. SHE HATES YOU. SHE'LL KILL YOU IN YOUR SLEEP." He left after that.

He wants attention? I can give him attention. I can give him a lot of attention.

But the funny thing is, is when I give him positive attention, he's aloof and despondent. He wants the negative attention, not the positive. God, I hate him and his Narcissistic Personality Disorder so much. He abuses the whole family so I abuse him. I'm like a mad dog, I bark and foam at the mouth so he won't come near. We ask him to get help but he refuses to. He says he's not hurting us after we tell him he is.

He needs to be executed.

Insomnia 2

This damn insomnia. Even after I've started the oh-so "sedating" {FUCKING LIGHTWEIGHTS} Seroquel. Even the name sounds like tranquilize. Isn't that what it's for? God damn I hate medication.

It's to put you in a mental prison and keep you down. It erases your personality because society doesn't like it. I don't want to be on an antipsychotic. I want an antidepressant. I don't want to be in a mental prison, a straight jacket, I don't want any chemical lobotomy.

I know this Seroquel won't work anyway. Nothing works. Nothing can stop her. Nothing can stop me. Nothing can stop me.

God she's scary. She's like a bull. There's nothing you can do when she gets angry. I suppose strong enough medication could stop her, maybe...

But what do you risk by doing that? she says. You don't want to lose your soul to a pharmaceutical company, do you?

I don't want to stop her anymore. I just want to do what she says. I want to be happy for once. I know I can't do this because I may or may not end up in jail {she insists that no, I will not, she'll make sure of it}.

Christ almighty, she's breaking through. She wants me to go get all dressed up and walk around outside. She always wants me walking around our pool at odd hours. I always wonder why. I feel like it makes her feel free, like she could unlink the fence on our yard at any second and fulfill her horrible desires. No way to get around? No problem. She can walk. And no one would want to pick her up once they saw her. No one is that brave.

I'm really losing it tonight, aren't I? But god, I just want to shut down and let her take over.

Here's what's happening now; she's making me feel good. She feels like I'll let her out. The joy she gives me can be spent in two ways. I can either sort of...tease her like I do when I'm manic and almost let her out, or I can say no, I'm not going to do that, and spend my joy being me/external me.

Logical Me says that the happiness she gives me is simply mania from bipolar and that I'm trying to explain it by making up grand stories because that's how I am. But riddle me this, Logical Me, how do you exist if that's all it is? I'm a figment of your imagination, she says, something you created to represent a sector of your personality. Then why do you have separate emotions? ...she does not know.

Are they becoming more real? I'm not really crazy, maybe? Maybe I was before but now...they must be becoming real or something. They feel separate emotions and I feel them all. I feel their different personalities.

My psychiatrist says I feel too much and think far too little. I suppose I can agree. I "think" in a very odd way. When I pray {I pray. Would you believe that? It's my silly way of trying to cling on to faith and begging anyone and anything to fix me} instead of saying "I'm sad about school", images of school run through my head and I have an emotional reaction to it. I feel a lot. My actions are based on feeling rather than any kind of logical thought.

Should I tell someone? Should I tell my psychiatrist or therapist I feel like I can't stop her? They'll commit me. I know they will. I can't be committed. It will get worse. Restraints and sedation, I can see it. I won't go quietly but they have ways to make me go quietly.

Christ.

INT. BEDROOM - DAY

Cold. Abandoned. Sheets cover forgotten furniture. Dust swirls in the late afternoon sun, creating a ghostly atmosphere. Solemn and melancholic.

THE MIRROR stands tall and proud in the middle of the room. It’s the only piece that’s not covered. How curious. Pale fingers graze the glassy surface leaving a trail in the grime.

Suddenly, a flash. A flicker of white dancing across the room. Thumping. Digits rip away from the mirror as ANNETTE turns away, stumbling back into the mirror, causing it to shake slightly.  

Annette turns back around, closer to her reflection and the other side than ever. 

ANNETTE

Who...who’s there? Who just did that? Tell me!

Black rimmed eyes, smoldering with madness left untreated for centuries. Wild, unkempt hair. Black like coal. Mouth and eyes bleeding with the gruesome Wonderhell Infection. 

ANNETTE

Oh my god, what the fuck?!

Annette’s heart is pounding visibly in her chest. Sweating harder. Breathing harder. Curious as always. 

She turns her head slightly to eye the creature up. Shaky breath is disturbing dusty hair, swirling it. She tries to gather her wits. The creature is staring back darkly, smiling her sticky, wet, black smile. She smells Annette’s fear.

ANNETTE

What...who...who are you?

Rose-Red cocks her head. It jerks to the side, creaking and popping.

ROSE-RED

...I’m the White Rabbit. Come.

ANNETTE

What? The White...come with you?! You must think me mad if-

ROSE-RED

I don’t think, I know.

ANNETTE

I-I’m sorry, but I’m not the type of girl to go following White Rabbits down their holes.

Faking bravery. Faking logic. Faking composure. As always.

ROSE-RED 

You are now.

Rose-Red’s black, drippy gaze burns into Annette. A cry of pain and Annette is dropping straight to the floor. A popping, sucking sound disturbs the silence of the room along with Annette’s screams of agony, abdomon and chest literally collapsing in upon her. 

ANNETTE

Oh, God! Quit this! Please! I’ll do anything, I’ll follow you, but please end this!

Rose-Red jerkily reaching her hand through the looking glass. Ancient and cracked, she turns her palm upwards, waiting. 

Annette lifts her arm up weakly, shaking with pain. Rose-Red’s claws quickly snap around it, quickly ripping her into the mirror, dislocating Annette’s shoulder. Rose-Red drags Annette into Wonderhell. The journey has begun.

Written for class. I don't like it very much anymore. Rose-Red hates it.

I'm derealizing horribly right now. It's almost unbearable. I feel completely alone. I want to sleep but I know I won't be able to. I suppose I'll dope myself up so I can't feel so awful.

Sometimes I don't understand why my mother just won't let me die. I want to kill myself, I really do. I resent her for it.

Fare-thee-well.

Reader/Writer Bonding Time!

Let's go on an adventure together, shall we?

My doctor called me and told me to come to her office because she has a special package for me.

What could it be? Hmm...let's look inside...

Oooh! Pretty colors!

Yaaay!

Yummy!

THE END

I'm getting ready to go to my psychiatrists office today. I didn't go to school. She didn't want me to. I was too tired from the insomnia, anyway.

I feel like some mania might be coming on. Feels good, man. Feels real good. I'm going to go dance around now.

Fare-thee-well.

Insomnia

This god damn Abilify causes horrid insomnia. I woke up. Again.

They want me on Seroquel. Seroquel? Really? Fuck. That's what they give to insomniacs for sleep. I have some. When my doctor gave it to me she said, "Yeah, it used to be and anti-psychotic, but they don't prescribe it anymore! Made people too sleepy." I figured Seroquel would be one of our last resorts.

Why do I have to be medicated in the first place? Why can't they just let me go crazy? I want to kill people. There, I said it. She tells me to and I want to do it. The thought of it makes me feel great. People are fucking evil in the first place, just look at me! "Dangerous," she says, "You need to be on medication. You're dangerous right now. It will only get worse." Let it, bitch.

God, I want to sleep. These side-effects! And I'm always in that small precent that has horrible side-effects with any medication I take. And I have fucking classes tomorrow...this is not good.

I'm nervous about my classes. As always, Rose-"I'm a cunt"-Red tells me horrible things every time I'm around people. What's it going to be this time, huh, Rose? Maybe you could come up with something new instead of the same old shit, okay? At least make it interesting for me and the readers. I keep asking my mom to take off work so she can drive me there. My mother is really the only person that can make Rose Red go away for a while. She studied psychology, and is very logical while being very caring and nurturing at the same time. She talks the through my emotions and they go away. I'm going either way, but going with my grandma or going with my mother is the difference between me being miserable and shut-down there and me being social, happy, and carefree.

Carefree is a funny word. It's two words...make into one.

That's funny to me.

Fare-thee-well.

PS The carefree thing was not a bit of wonderful, cryptic insight. The medicine's just kicking in is all.

Medication

I can't tell if it's working or not. I'm having some nasty side-effects. I get this facial tensions that sometimes causes headaches, but mostly just looks stupid. And then there's the restlessness. I can't get comfortable. I have to keep moving around. I can't stay asleep because of it. It drives me mad. {That's why I'm in this fucking situation in the first place} I keep kicking my legs around and rolling over.

We're considering taking me off it. I'm not sure if it's working well enough to put up with the side-effects. Some days it works wonderfully {like right now.}, but others not so much. If I'm put in a high pressure situation I get dangerous again. Well, high pressure in my eyes.

This is absolutely miserable. Why was I made this way? Why was my reaction to a shitty situation to just break down completely? My mother says it's because I'm always alone and very creative. I'm starting to think it's the devil in me. She's just evil. Listen to me, I've gone completely mad. I never thought I'd be here at sixteen. I thought I would at least have, you know, friends. {plural} I feel like I was made broken. Like I was just this accident that was never meant to be let out into the world. That's why I'm so in love with serial killers. They were accidents, too. But much like Ed Gein, I'm not really bad. I'm just scared and crazy. The world sort of...fucked me over. {have I told you why, yet? I'll tell you sometime when I feel like writing about it}

I always found it funny that people will call them monsters. Do you ever wonder what happened to them to make them that way? The person who did that...now that's a monster. Imagine being so fucked up that you would take a life. {I don't have to imagine.} Isn't that horrible? Isn't that sad? Someone took their chance at being a wonderful human being away. They could have been a Beethoven or a Stevin Hawking.

Now I'm not saying I don't have a chance at being a wonderful human being. I have this dumb-puppy-like sense of hope. I really am delusional, aren't I?

Fare-thee-well.

Crowded

I hate it when there's not a crowd. You thought I was going to say the opposite, didn't you? I know you did.

As I was saying...I hate it. I know that I'm going to be one of the main focal points, which scares the ever-loving-shit out of me. I know what they're thinking, you know? They're judging me for being there at that weird time in that weird outfit in this weird place that they're only at to make fun of me.

Crowds protect me. I loved New York. No one stared. Everyone was too busy to give a crap about me. I was just a speck among many other specks. It was wonderful.

I like to view people as witnesses. If someone tries to hurt me, if I'm in a crowd, well that's a thousand witnesses. They're not going to try it/succeed/get away with it. But if I'm alone or the crowd is small...then that's much more dangerous. Ted Bundy targeted girls who were alone.

Every time I walk into a restaurant that isn't busy, I feel like the employees are thinking "My god, no one ever comes here at this time! What is she doing? She looks ridiculous. Look at her, look at what she's wearing. How weird." I feel tall and awkward {I'm 5'2"}. And this is odd, but I feel like a transvestite. Like some sort of abnormal spectacle. A man in ladies clothes. Graceful, but not quite as graceful as she should be. Still a little awkward in those heels.

It's that bitch of an imaginary friend I have. She tells me this shit. It doesn't matter how many people tell me she's wrong. She may leave for a bit, but she comes back. She always comes back.

Fare-thee-well.

I've had anxiety since I was a wee lass. Not just anxiety...crippling, illogical, childhood-ruining anxiety. Most things I would tell my therapist, who I have been seeing since I was six, but some things I kept hidden deep within myself. I think it was Rose Red all along, telling me lies. She told me my mother wanted to kill me. My whole family wanted me dead. Everyone in the world was plotting my demise. I literally would not go inside a 7-11 because I feared getting shot. I was in near tears when my mother left to go alone. Despite my notion that she was out to get me, I loved her more than anything and always thought something was going to happen to her. I still do.

I still have horrible anxiety, but it's taken a more mature turn. Now everyone is trying to rape me. Nice, eh? Even some family members. I can barely handle being around men. I hate being touched. I'm basically a rape victim.

And don't get me started on the social anxiety. She tells me they all laugh at me. She tells me that no one could ever want to be my friend because I'm too crazy and weird. Class is usually miserable. My heart is thumping a million miles an hour, bursting out of my chest. I keep my head down at my notebook, shaking, literally shaking with fear. There are people. They see the way I'm dressed, oh god they think I'm a freak. They're laughing at me. Even if they're being nice to me, I know what they're really thinking. I know what everyone's really thinking.

Last time, though, was lovely. The medication made some of my social anxiety leave. I actually spoke out in class. And, get this, I actually made acquaintances. Shayda and Chris. Chris is a steampunk. He wasn't in costume, but I was. He noticed and said he liked it. He's awfully cute. I do not think they're laughing at me. I think they may actually like me a little bit. It was one of the most thrilling experiences I've had in years, which is actually pretty sad.

But the medication isn't working as well. I'm afraid.

Fare-thee-well.

Today I feel...okay. Which bothers me. I suppose I'm frightened when I don't feel like killing myself or killing someone else {because of mania} and so that depresses me. So I suppose I'm depressed. Alright.

The other day Rose Red kept telling me to kill my family. It frightened me because she had been gone for about a week, but I got really mad and she came back all of a sudden. I had gotten in a fight with my family {my sick grandmother was attempting to do lifting and I insisted that she not, and the whole family except my mother, who was upstairs, jumped on my ass. Even my little six year old cousin. That really pissed me off} and went absolutely ape shit. I mean kicking, screaming, threatening crazy bitch. We were in the garage and the garage door was open and I went outside screaming, "Do you hear me, neighborhood? DO YOU HEAR ME? COME FIGHT ME!" That's what makes me I was experiencing mild mania. It was a total over-reaction {even though I was right in the situation and my mother reprimanded the rest of the family for telling me I was wrong when I was trying to do the right thing} and no one gets THAT mad at something like that.

Then afterwards, of course, Rose Red butts her ugly {okay, she's not actually ugly...she's really pretty.} head into my mind to fuck around with me. She's telling me they all deserve to be executed, burned, shot, axed, etc. She is not a nice girl. I told her to shut up and leave me along of course, and she eventually gave up. But fuck, those moments are scary. She puts up such a convincing argument. She's like a sociopath. Very soulless, but very charming and cunning. I just don't know what to do with her.

Fare-thee-well.

Update on Hearing Things

I went about the rest of my day just fine. Nothing else happen and I was in a sweet, chipper mood. I got lots of compliments on my unique style of dress from the carnies at the fair I went to.

I can picture exactly who did it. She had shoulder length hair, or maybe just above…it was reddish brown. She’s out of the 1940s. 30s, even. She’s very beautiful and kind. She wears a fancy, sparkly dress.

It’s just the most amazing and scary experience, hearing someone that’s not there. There’s nothing like it.

Fare-thee-well.

Hearing Things

Just now. Singing. Really beautiful, but creepy as hell. I ran to my mom’s bathroom, banging on the door, asking her if she was singing. And that’s a negative. Holy mother of god that was horrifying.

I rewound the show I was watching to see if it was on there and it wasn’t. I have officially heard something.

The funny thing is is that I’m on this medication that should be preventing that. Abilify. It worked like a fucking dream {I though I was cured} for the first week, but for some reason now it’s wearing off.

Christ on a Cracker, what was that? It sounded like a woman singing. Humming a very clear tune. I can probably sing it right now. This better not be child-fucking-onset-motherfucking-schizophrenia. I don’t think it is. I think it’s just the psychosis. At least I’m not hearing clear voices. And at least it wasn’t something horrifying, like laughter or hissing. Just a pleasant little tune. Pleasant and scary as hell.

I’m going to take my Abilify for today and hope that never happens again.

Fare-thee-well.

The Red Queen of Wonderhell

She’s making me feel really bad tonight. I named her Rose-Red.

Sometimes I have these nightmare nights were I’m just waiting for the sun to come up. I keep looking at the clock.

I can sort of visualize Wonderhell. It’s war-torn there. There’s a civil war going on, after all. There’s the Teddy Bear army {not exclusive to Teddy Bears, of course. We don’t discriminate.} which the Good in me/External Me commands. The war is intense and it is fought in the trenches. Then there’s the Emerald Tower, which houses Logical Me. Logical me watches and plans and calculates as usual, choosing not to take in something as barbaric as war. Then of course Rose-Red, the Red Queen of Wonderhell, she sits in her Red Tower, commanding her army. I can’t see her army but it’s powerful.

I feel very cold now. Actually physically cold. I have goosebumps and everything. I pretend I’m sleeping in a huddling in a cold, damp trench and I feel a little better.

Oh thank God. I glanced towards my blinds and saw the sky glowing dark blue through the slats. The morning is finally coming. The night is not going to last forever {it always seems that way, doesn’t it?}

My mother wants me to go to church. She’s not very religious at all. I believe she’s actually agnostic like I am. She just wants me doing something. I would like to do something, but not that. No, I’m far to angry. Besides, it would be disrespectful {ha.} to bring someone like Rose-Red into a place like that. She’d infect it with Wonderhell. Wonderhell comes out of her every orifice. It’s black and drippy and pulsing. The best was I can describe it is like an infection. It sort of crawls out of her.

I’m feeling a little better now. The medicine has kicked in, that’s probably why. I’m sleepy but I don’t want to sleep, I want to enjoy the temporary joy.

Psychotic

Yes, you read it right. I suppose it shocks me more than it shocks anyone else, but that’s normal, I guess. I didn’t think I was THAT insane.

I pretty much told my therapist everything. I told her all about Wonderhell and all about the “Bad Me”. She wrote it down and told my mother, “She’s talking in we’s”.

I’ve learned that Psychosis isn’t as bad as movies and tv make it out to be. I am not Norman Bates. {even though he did have Psychosis…NORMAN, MY BROTHER!} It’s just delusions and hallucinations. It can be caused by bipolar disorder, depression, anxiety, and of course schizophrenia. {which I don’t have, no worries.} I have some pretty severe delusions and I sometimes have what I think might be hallucinations. I smell things and I see people staring at me and talking about me. Laughing, also. No one else hears it, so I’m assuming it’s just me. But my god, I swear they are.

Anyway, back to my fun facts on Psychosis. Psychotics and Psychopaths are different things. I’m a Psychotic. A Psychopath {sociopath, psychopathic personality disorder} is someone who doesn’t have the ability to from human connection. In other words, a fucking killing machine. My father was a Psychopath and I’m a Psychotic. How cute.

I suppose you want to hear a bit more about the delusions, don’t you? Alright. Why not jump right in? There is more than one of me. “Bad Me” “External Me” and “Logical Me” This will get real complicated real fast, so bear with me.

Picture a silhouette of a girl. {that’s me!} There’s an outline of golden yellow, glowing and strong. That’s external me. External me is the person I used to be. There’s nothing too horribly wrong with Ex Me. She’s pretty normal, as “normal” as I can be. She can be depressed sometimes, but it’s caused mostly by things in her world, the external world. This is easily fixed. But remember, she’s just the outline. Now we’ll move on to “Bad Me”.

Now if you will please picture the silhouette again, see that it is filled with a dark, sparkling, swirling purple. This is Bad Me. Notice how she fills the silhouette, so naturally, whatever she feels the whole body feels. She controls everything. She is the Red Queen of Wonderhell. I still haven’t figured out how she works. She won’t talk to me, no matter how much I pester her. If she’s in a bad mood {which is often} she’ll make me feel empty. I try to do all I can to make her happy. She really likes horror movies, she rewards me when I watch them with good feelings. She likes it when I take pills or if I do anything that’s generally naughty. No one really sees the bad me. Ex Me keeps her inside. The funny thing is is that they usually feel opposite emotions. If Ex Me is happy, Bad Me is usually angry. {I say angry because she’s too much of a control freak to resort to depression.} When my mother asks why I’m acting so sad, I get confused because I’m not, no not at all! I feel full. Usually when I have these “happy” episodes, three quarters of the way through Bad Me beats down Ex Me to show herself to the world. You haven’t seen mania until you’ve seen this.

My therapist asked if I ever want to kill someone out of anger. I told her I want to kill out of happiness. That’s Bad Me.

I want her to start talking but I’m afraid. I’m afraid if she talks she’ll tell me how to make her REALLY happy, and I’m afraid that it won’t be anything good. It’s not worth it, I know that. There have to be other ways to get through this.

My therapist is sending me to a psychiatrist that she thinks I’ll like. She said she might put me on anti-psychotics. I read up on the anti-psychotics and I’m not liking them at all. They’re pretty much to sedate you so you won’t do anything rash. I find it funny because isn’t that what I do already with my pain medication? But oh, I forgot…it’s a doctor. It’s okay because it’s a doctor. That makes it okay, see? Silly me.

But I find myself living by a certain song-lyric by a certain someone when it comes to situations like this. {having to do with medications and treatment and whatnot.}

I will swallow if it will help my sea-level go down, but I’ll come back to haunt you if I drown.

It’s always worth a shot. Sure, I may get really fat and lose a bit of brain mass, but it can’t be worse than thinking there are more than one of me, right?

Oh! that reminds me. There’s one more of me. She’s “Logical Me” That’s the one that thinks…or knows, I suppose, that none of this is logically possible. But the fact that she’s one of the three me’s is sort of ironic, no?

I can’t seem to figure out which one I’m always living in. I guess I’m just floating around within this silhouette, feeling it all at the same time. I’m sure you can imagine how intense that is.

Well, that’s all I have to say for now. I hope no one gets too concerned. Remember logical me. She wouldn’t allow me to do anything mad. She always makes me go tell someone if I feel…funny. I’ll be okay. This diagnosis doesn’t really change anything. I’m no crazier than I was before.

Rianne

Wonderhell has a New Resident

I took a pencil and paper and begin to write.

The result:

“There’s no weather in Wonderhell today. It’s almost as if it’s a vacuum. {vacuum has two u’s…heh.} Time seems like it’s standing still.

God, please, Father Time. Please give me some sort of relief from this stillness, this quietness, this agony. I can’t handle the still, silent torture of night.

I went outside and {of course} it wasn’t as it should be. It was a fuckingroom. There was no Universe. I could sense the absence before I even stepped out the door. And when I did…it was still. So still.

Oh God, I can’t take this anymore. I can feel the vacuum inside of me. In my stomach. It’s sucking all of me into it, collapsing me in on myself. It’s destroying me.

It laughs. Look at all the power it has over me.

I try to draw it. I can envision it in my head, but when I try to stick it on paper it resists with vigor. Maybe it’s too horrible to exist in this world without a host. Or maybe it knows that if I embody it, some of it’s power over me is taken away.

Huh. And thus a character is born.”

I stopped taking my anti-depressants. I didn’t like the “artificial happiness”. I’m starting to think that it’s a sacrifice I’m going to have to make.

PS: If anyone can think of a name for this derealization character, feel free to throw the idea out there. I was thinking agony because that’s pretty accurate, but I like loneliness too because after all, I do feel like I’m the only person who exists.

Untitled

It has come to my attention that my daydreams are much more horrific than my actual life. This is funny because aren’t daydreams there to escape to a better place? I mean, sometimes I’m literally in hell.

And don’t think I’m always the killer. (I often am, but not all the time.) I’ve been the victim more times than I could ever count. I’ve died in so many horrible ways it’s insane. Suicide, murder, freak accidents, or just dying from all of the pain.

But then I realize that it’s all an elaborate set up for revenge and bloody killings.

-

I dress up in corsets and bloody makeup and go walk circles around my pool in the wee hours of the morning. It’s nice until someone wakes up and sees me and I freak them out.

Also, it kind of hurts my feet, walking that long.

-

I had to use some self-control today. I was in a very kill-y mood.

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I learned about Anthrax today and will from now on be horrified of grass and plants. Damn this curiosity.

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I’m very sad because it will never really be worth it for me. I want the ultimate. I want death and revenge. Sometimes I can convince myself that I’ll get what I want. The delusion gets strong and I believe it. Those moments are so nice. I’m so calm yet angry at the same time.

I’ve noticed that I mistake anger for happiness a lot. I’m not sure if I know exactly what happiness is. I’ve been raging through my life for about six or seven years now. Pretty much all I’ve been feeling for that length of time is angst. (I love that word. It combines sadness in anger all it one tongue roll-y package.) Anger makes me happy, I guess. But is that happiness? Does anyone even know what happiness is? I suppose it’s individual to the person but how can one emotion be another? Shouldn’t they be clearly defined?

-

Am I God?

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Some people deserve to be put out of their misery. I’m not talking about myself.

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I hate having a strong desire for something I simply can’t ever have. It’s just not fucking fair. I can feel it in my bones, in my fingers almost all the time. I don’t understand why I would be cursed like this. I lie awake a night longing for the dream. What kind of higher power does this kind of thing? What’s the reason?

-

God I fucking hate everything.