Mah gawd. Jibbetty jiball.

Hello.
This is a journal entry.
The,
Things I want to say.
Are cool.

Not really actually. 
But look.

So.

Preface.








Lots of tabs.
Enter enter enter.
Now.
To write.

You ever look at someone with a mental illness and all these labels about these horrible things they go through and think "WOW? I HATE ME!" Why?
Why do they get those awesome things and you don't? Huh?
You realize no amount of erraticity can ever save you. Because convincing yourself you're damaged is harmful to not only yourself, but to the people who actually suffer.
Think about that.
 I think about that.
I Think about that a lot.
I think about me. Me me me me me. All day, me, me, me. Me, me, me, me, me, me.
You know?
Me.

Please. But not really. Because that sounds like begging and people don't like it when you beg.

Why?

I want to be alone but it's just a little phase. I'm all alone.
But it's just a little phase. It's just a little phase.
I'm all alone.

You ever get this deep, aching soreness in your chest? Might be a medical issue. But there's this thing I heard called psychosomatic pain - WAIT. WHAT? PSYCHOSOMATIC WHATNOW? You're going crazy. Crazy! Crazy liar! Liar! Oh, so I can't talk about that now?

Wow. Please.

I'm human and all my limbs are made out of meat! I'm human and I don't know what I am.
Haha (Lol). Meat. Meat!
Meat face. Smoosh that face with all that skin. Skin face. Eat that up. Yum yum in my tum tum.
No, that's so nasty! Yuck!
The texture is strange.
The image of my hands is stranger.
Stranger. Like I'm a stranger.

But not really. If I say I'm a stranger, I'd be lying. I'm not a liar.

No, I am a liar. I'm a huge liar. I lie to everyone. Even myself. 
I can not lie sometimes. There are some exceptions.
For one, I am not a stranger. Well, maybe to you I am.
Some stranger prattling on about nonsense.

Nothing. A nothing. 
But to me I can be everything.
Everything!
Feelings conveyed in the abstract sense look kind of wacky to onlookers. There's so many misinterpretations. People say modern art is overpriced. But it's pure gold for that person who makes it. The cathartic release seeing your emotions on paper. I tried it today - beautiful art. "Beautiful" art. But it made me feel revolted. I could see it -- that art was so attention seeking. It was just a thing reflecting my little phase. There was a burning red crack in the middle, dripping with faded green and blues. The excitement drips down my scalding heart. Ow. The hurt is inside.
Ouww. Owww... Owwie. I think I have a booboo.

But Gramma told me that it was okay.
That made me feel good. Great! Great, even. Because, I knew it was real. My pain's not fake. I am not an illusion -- but it doesn't have to be all or nothing. 
I tell myself that I can't exist without my emotions being real. But I continue to exist. So I exist.

I'm still human.
But really? Human? Me? Why? How, you know?
Made of flesh. 
Fleshsicle with a nice skin dipping.
Coated with hair.
And eyeballs.

The brain to type this wacky sentence is thinking about the sentence as it types.
Me dad called me a "true creative."
Artist in every sense of the word - a writer, musician, sculpter, I paint and sketch.
He says I'm closer to the Muse at my age. Hahaha. Maybe.

Bite sized stipplings of nonsensical drool dribbling from my mouth metaphorically onto this figurative paper. Don't stop, my music. Keep on playing.
IT means NOTHING! Everything is repetitive, senseless, quibbling, if my jaws were moving the words would be meaningless, nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. I'm a depressed poet. I'm special, I'm unique, look at me. I'm young and brimming with naivety. Just look at me! No, don't look, I'm not good enough for anyone's eyes.
Oh, dramatic aren't we?

And That ache in my heart keeps on aching. Ouch. Wow. That auto corrected to 'wow' but I'll keep it anyways. Should I see a doctor? I just saw a therapist and she told me I'm probably fine and I'm over exaggerating. Okay, she didn't say that. But I worried that she was thinking: "Oh, here's another one of *these guys.*" She probably is tired of dealing with sensitive people like me, even if we give her an easy time because our issues are so easy to resolve. They're just repetitive, the whining is repetitive. She might just want us to shut up.
Ugh.
I'm going to take those self-assessments. I'll have to tick off every item that'll convince her I *don't* have a mental illness. Are you serious? 

Why not me?

I get left out of that exclusive club, the one where people walk in and flaunt their issues. ... Okay. They aren't "flaunting" them. But to me it feels like they are.
They're listing off their symptoms like everyday fun facts about themselves! And the list keeps on growing. They write, "This is how I'll manage them today." I get so jealous.
I don't like it. 

I want to be safe. I want to feel free. But still this pain lingers inside of me. 
It doesn't make it hard to breathe, I can just be.
But not all of me.

Useless mind-talk. Endless parade of mind-jargon, gibbering, senseless white noise, a pitiless crowd of onlookers, their emotions comatose. I'm a big sweaty loser! 

I feel like I'm just acting. My dad told me, "I don't really recognize you." Like, not in those exact words. But he got what I meant when I said "I feel like I'm acting."
I'm acting?
I'm acting *out.* You know, I acted out recently. I made a big mistake.

You probably don't care, but I have some things to say (sorry, had to ward off everyone who was nodding off to sleep).

It is a... continuous mistake. This mistake takes willpower (or perhaps a lack of it) to ceaselessly make it. It just keeps growing into a bigger mistake the more it goes on.
But anyways. I'm now failing in the only aspect of life that I had a chance in. (Maybe except for creativity.)
Uh. Am I drawing you in yet?
Anyways.
I am a failure.
F-A-I-L-U-R-E. A failure.

You can say it'll all be okay.
Then I will proceed to feel this: JDAJIIHU IHU H@*U@ IHU IJNFNJA WINJ@E (*@(*@ IHU@Q IJQ@ IJH@Q INNIJF JNS NSAF KNH@ IHUR@ IHURIHR@ IHU@ IHUQQIH @QIIHUIHUQ NJNJ RNJ J NJRNA KJ IUHRIU@ IU @RIUH@IHUQ IR @IHUQ@R IHURQ @IHUR@ IHUR@R IHR @QIHUR QUIHRNJJKHFIJ OIUOIGGIOJDIO GKJGOIJGIOJGJIGJOIGDG DIJOGD G K#IHU#TIHUT#IHU#IHU#IHUTKJKN KJN EKETKJETIUHTHIAWIHRHIUWIADHIHU AUHAAHHH AHHH AHHH AHHHHHH AHHHH AHHH AHHH AHHH AHHH AHHH AHHH AHHHHHH A HHH AHAHAH AH AH AHAHHAHHAHHAHAHAH AH HAHA HAH H AHHAH AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH AHAH AH AH HAH A HH HA  HAHA H HA H AHA H AHA HA H AHA H H AH AHAH AH AHH H AH AHH AH H AH AHA H AH AHH AH HA HAHHA H AHA HA H HHA H AHHAH HA H HA HA HAH HAHH HA HA H AUNININNNNIIAIHHHHH IM USELESS I ULSESSLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL L TALKE LE ELL

But don't let that steer you away from replying. (If you want).

I wanted to tell them I hate them. That's why I got kicked out. (Well, this is very vague. So here's some background information: There was this one group I talked with for maybe a half year, then I started lashing out at them being passive aggressive and sarcastic and mocking their conversations, so they lost patience with me and I had to go.)
But, now I'm thinking, maybe I should've been less general about who I mocked? There was specifically this one guy who got on my nerves. Then I could've gone out with more of a *bang* instead of a fizzle and a pop.
*This guy* had a "mental illness" that made him more "special" than "me."
Whatever.
He started saying he had "inner auditory hallucinations." So, first of all, who cares? Nobody cares about your life. Nobody even cares about you. Everyone will just leave you if you say too much stuff about yourself. You should be worried about them leaving you. You should be constantly suspicious and ruin everything for yourself.
How is *this guy* better than me? He talks with people just normally. He must be pretending to be mentally ill, because I can't speak with people like a normal person.
What does that make me if he has all these issues and I don't, but *still* suck?
Someone who refuses to take accountability for their mistakes? No. Definitely not.

They started telling me "Oooooooo Your Trauma Isn't Something To HAve A Superoirity ComplIx Bout Uuuuu" man shut up. You have everything else. Why gatekeep this? Trauma is all I have to brag about.
And when you have more than me you TAKE that away from me.
(Acting.)
I think they thought I was *nasty* when I said I was masochistically feeding off their criticism of me. 
That's why they left.

(Ignoring the pain I inflicted on them with my jerk-like actions.)

It felt bad to be irredeemable. It's like I caused them to jump on the hate train. You know, the same type of merciless hate that murderers get. Criminals. I felt like a criminal.
And that made me feel bad.
Shrank me to nothing.
Hence the pain in my chest.
But it's not new, it just resurfaced. I think I got my heart broken by someone before.
But they don't care anymore, I'm alone.
I'm alone.
I didn't give them a chance to care.

I didn't want them to "like" me. They said they "like" me. I'm not supposed to be likable.

AHHH BOOHOOBOOHOO. Why does everything I write sound fake? Am I just lying? Is it why I'm feeling guilty?

I feel so bad.
But do I really?

There's just that zeitgeist of a feeling I can't even verify. If only someone could plug a thermometer into my head and read my emotions.

Shut up, ad! Let me play my music! I'm in the zone.

(An ad played.)

Whatever.



I'm alone.
I think all about me. Every day, me, me, me, me, me, me, me, nothing but me, licking my own wounds.
Cast out by a world that's cruel and callous. Still hoping that someone will save me.
I'm like an abandoned baby bird, calling out for food even though I'm almost ready to leave the nest.
Well, I don't feel ready.
I'm still aching.
Pain is like hot brands against my flesh, burning into me again.
The world is grey but I see it as evil. And me as a victim.
But when I walk on the streets, I'm afraid of the people I pass by hurting me. 
So I portray vigilance. I don't feel like I can do it, kay?

Stop it, just stop It, stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it, leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone. Thousands of hands force me into a crevice, I just want to sit here and stay here forever.
I want to feel like I'm buried in a steel box with my knees curled to my chest far underground. Somewhat like a coffin, but with vents, because dying from suffocation sounds unsavory.

Can you just imagine taking all these metaphors I'm using literally and actually putting me through this? Burying me in a box, branding me with a hot iron, shunning me, etc, etc. Then I'll know what *real* pain is like, and you can be satisfied that my petty whining is over and dust your hands off and be done with me.

I'm just human. And my brain thinks it escapes those confines. Is everything I'm saying human, or is it just my consciousness? What unconscious needs or desires do my thoughts and writing stem from? Is there really such a thing as the "unconscious mind?" Well, even if it's not scientifically proven, *apparently* it helps people. We're just getting *somewhere.* It just doesn't have to be accurate as long as it works, I guess.

I thought I was really dumb so I got all insecure over that group. You know, the one I acted like a jerk to. They always talked about things they knew a lot about with all this jargon. It made me feel like a newbie. I had to ask *them* questions. Somehow shifting me off the limelight seems irritating. Maybe because I'll be drowned out if I'm not constantly competing for their attention (and winning)?
Well, it's not like I can do that anymore, because we're not in contact anymore.
And good riddance.
From me.