i dreamt of impressing the high school art teacher. i bought lattes from the university cafeteria in the hope of connecting with someone. i tried to feel confident and independent walking from one group of friends to the next at school all on my own. i tried to understand calculus, be ambitious with projects, dream, push my physical capabilities while unicycling with my dad’s friends, pushing back loneliness, trying to feel like i belonged, trying to understand people.
why am i so awkward? what am i doing wrong?
i enjoyed the look of slugs on my leg, zigzagging over each other, smooth scar tissue reminiscent of strong emotions. feeling like i don’t quite cross the line into fucked up, yet i am not in line with normal. limbo. my story isn’t sad enough to trigger sympathy – petty enough to attract empathy from people who know what it feels like to have a nick but it’s an invisible wound spreading through me.
i remember fantasying about my legs being covered completely in scar tissue so no hair would grow.
unconsciously enjoying not taking my antidepressants on time and feeling the brain zaps on the second day and feeling so delusional and out of it that everything is good again. trying to kill the brain cells so there isn’t that second voice in my head telling me i’m worthless and there’s no point and no one likes me anyway.
feeling like i’m trying to find a scapegoat and i want to scream.
you’re a piece of shit a piece of shit a piece of shit.
i'm delusional now and i like it and i am running on minimal sleep, weed is still in my body, sweaty and naked in my bed, feeling poetic and like an absolute wanker and like i should really be spending a month sober reading sherlock holmes, researching different breeds of duck and watching david attenborough.
you forget that i’ve tried really hard.