I am a very pitiful person sometimes.
There, I said it.
I used to believe I had nothing left of my mother. I had sold the only keepsake that she left behind for me a few years ago just so I could afford to leave my home out west. It was then that I realized where all my deepest pains originated; the cause of many of my self-destructive habits and the hurt I was trying to cover. . .My mother.
It took me a good year and a half before I finally came to terms with her life, and our shared past. It all finally sunk in that I had nothing left. Not even any of her letters. (The original, handwritten ones anyway.) When I realized what I had done, an awful pain split through me.
Oh, but how very wrong I was. What she has given to me no one will ever take away, no matter how fucking hard they try. Closer to me than any letter or gold braided necklace. She is the voices in my head, the monster in the corner, the fear that grips me without cause, and the sorrow that stalks me day and night. My own involuntary gift from her is biological and makes my life what it is. It’s the inner challenges I face every day. And when worldly problems accost me, my schizophrenia becomes their sidekick.
Don’t get me wrong. I no longer carry any ill feelings toward her. The above is just cold hard fact. Facts can be a bitch.
I had not meant to go into an epic about my mother. I don’t know. Ever since I came home last night I feel I’m in the midst of a mini prodrome. I guess I have Briley to blame now for making me so damn distraught without her that I’m literally losing my fucking mind. I’m not happy about being so emotionally dependent, either. I try to give the girl her space but inside, there are days I’ve already considered electrocuting or poisoning myself just so I can visit her at work in the ICU.
I know, I know. Pitiful. Fucking A!
See, I’m just a little gone right now. I’m probably saying way too much. If you could imagine waking up feeling like you’ve had a few Xanax, maybe some muscle relaxers, a couple of shots and some weed to top it all off, perhaps you could imagine why I’m going on like I am. It seems like a pleasant experience, sure, though imagine not knowing why you feel that way and already being prone to panic like a wild animal thrusted into civilization. At least these days, I know why. I used to suspect a brain tumor. The changes are so drastic, the audio and visuals alarmingly, confusingly real.
I’m not fond of it.
The only choice I have left is to take a couple of Seroquel and either pass the fuck out, or walk around drooling for a good few hours. The worst part about this particular horse pill is that it makes my anxiety worse. So now you if you can, imagine knowing you’re about to drop dead where you stand. Panic ensues and you want to run, to scream for help. But you’re a zombie, remember? There’s no running or screaming. Only a zombie forgets he’s a zombie.