Over four years later.

I’ve let my feelings for you completely destroy me.

I read shit about how my brain is all fucked up
and then I read about a foreign country to take my mind off of this one for a day or two
because everything is fucked up and I might just as well get some variety.

Then I have a nervous breakdown when I finish reading and I’m left alone with myself;
Breakdowns usually complete with hallucinations that I have to analyze later to ascertain
what would be a simple determination
to an outsider.

Try it.
It’s not interesting.
It’s not fun.
It’s just the way things are.

Sometimes.

Did I talk to you yesterday or not?
Are you sitting with me now?
When did I move this piece of paper (or did some unwelcome party move it for me)?
Are they talking about me in the other room or is the house empty?

I don’t know if it’s more disturbing to lose time
or gain excess information about shit that never happened.
It’s hard to piece the fragments into a coherent flow
and language slips.

Language slips away from work in the middle of the day
and I’m left to fend for myself without it.

The time of day
the place.
It’s not just names and faces.

I hate sleeping.
Water has been refusing to follow the laws of physics.

Put your Psych 101 texts away.

I have to listen to shit about how I’m sick
how I have a chemical imbalance in my brain
how it’s not my fault
and how I’ve been this way for most of my life.
Medication is the answer
the panacea.
It will normalize my
mood
mind
sense of self
Life?
Most importantly, it’s nothing to be ashamed of.

Ashamed?

Everybody that so much as suspects that something’s amiss
has something to say.
When I stop to think about it for too long, my eye develops a subtle twitch.
This is all meant to be helpful.

As much as is said on the topic of helping…

You said you were happy.
You were angry with me, because you thought I was upset that you were happy
which wasn’t directly true.

I might have been a little upset
that someone other than me helped you find a moment’s happiness
if not your own…

at least a moment.

…

The shit I read states that I’m delusional
and I must be delusional, because I don’t think I am.
I disagree, and that’s a nice Catch 22 symptom in the hallmark of soft science.
The shit I’m supposedly thinking is broken down for me
but I don’t see it the way it’s set up

all non-sequiturs and generalized assumptions that make sense in short strings but rarely add up.

…

I openly admitted that I was jealous.

…

I still haven’t accepted that I’m delusional.

…

I still think it’s you that I saw
that you’re real

that you’re still there

but it doesn’t matter.
It just doesn’t matter anymore.

I misinterpreted something important; something vital…
so I read about how I’m a fuck up when everything is fucked up
and yet
somehow
I’m incongruously still missing…

you.