discoherent's Diaryland
Diary
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sugar, you're wrong... try poetic *demise*
Part 1.
i know you try to help, and i commend and admire the attempt but you do not grasp it .. so many don't all previous advice has led me to the rash assumption that a med free life is the right life... and i, on some levels, do agree... but here i stand, nearly med free (and still glad to not worry of the horrible side effects) and fret of how i shall deal... and you don't have the answer for that... medications, i understand are a daunting proposition and have gained a terrible reputation because of how freely they offer nay ENCOURAGE others to take them... so when someone -me- needs them... you all look shake your heads then come up with a way the right way for me to deal... "she needs to find god" -i've found him and he left "she needs to see therapists" -let me count the time i've lost with them "she needs to find herself" -you're right, i never spend hours writing journal entries, constantly calculating everything i say, why i say it... let me guess, you know me better than i do, right? "she needs to work on it" -uh, you're so right, again, i didn't spend 3 + weeks in a psych ward, every waking minute dedicated solely on changing who i am...
and my personal favourite: "she needs to not get so angry / she needs to just think happily" -... do i even need to elaborate? apparently so... there's this lame little chemical in the brain.. seritonan... yours is probably fine, if you don't wake up every morning hoping to get hit by a truck, or go to sleep every night hoping to die while you rest... mine isn't, chemical imbalance can be moderated with mental training, can never be cured, but can be managed with evening out the chemical by adding the chemical... get it? fin ----------------- Part 2 so much for a poetic devise with each word i write i am concreting my poetic demise don't worry though, give it another week and soon this will be buried lost deep amidst these random inconsistent discordent raving sentance fragments a little odd, it could be concluded that i am the author spilling out these grammatically disturbed verses. (don't worry though i never talk like this in person... just on a flashing little screen) it's somehow been categorized as poetry thus the opening statement. i suppose it could be considered abstract, perhaps? the only poetry i've ever cared to write has been rather uneducated, limerick - crap far too set on ensuring the rhyme than to actually put much effort into the point... so i suppose i shall concede, say that i am unintentionally creating poetry... but that does stray a tad from the point i am attempting to make this sunlit morning the point being : of the neon abyss seemingly engulfing me moreso with each passing event... through screaming match after the previous through slammed doors and bruised fists (but you should see the wall) i somehow ended up merely giving... up... i do this, ever so often, you know... but it's always the sign the hint that it's all about to hit the pavement... (and i've never won against that) i wanted to cry i wished i had cried.... for when this momentarily comforting condition of numbness strikes... soon follows the downfall... i do, on occasion question why this is... but mixed up between the sad and the pscyhe the insipid moments bring waves of relief... and my dear mate, pirate as i may be waves of any sort tend to, have an uneasy affect upon me... so fickle they are, to passing changes, quick to anger, themselves... uncaring to those they drown, with undercurrents or tidal waves... and as much as i fantasize of *death* i'd rather not simply be swept away... not by the ocean itself, and most certainly not by the currents of my own fickle and quick to anger emotions... no, i'd much rather a poetic departure... one made as a statement of unbridled and undying love or faith, belief... something, not lying there, dead for an unworthy cause, upon a cold linoleum floor... bottles and blood as the decorations... (but i've never thought this through before) don't make a hasty move calling the people you think will help (and white suits are not the way they come) i am not planning anything just elaborating upon a point long since strayed from... believe me babe... i am here still, a little more cold for the current forcast, you'll like it that way, until my demise, and not the one of poetic kind... the one, that is coming and i don't think you've even noticed yet... but just hope for my sake, that tomorrow, i cry... fin pt 2 --------------------
8:59 a.m. - Sunday, Aug. 27, 2006
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