Black ink.

Today has been a hard hit for my mental health. I had a psychosis earlier this morning. I went to the bathroom, stared, and yelled at the doorknob, just like in all those horror films... except I watch none, and even if I did, it's scarier when what you see in fiction turns reality into yourself.

During my day volunteering, I was hit with something similar IN that school's restroom. Yelled (albeit silently to prevent scaring the students), did what I had to do, and even covered my ears, because it's just too much. It only got worse when I returned home.

I lost my mind.

I freaking lost it.

I became so psychotic, so desperate, that I entered a trance. I destroyed pens and smothered their ink in the notebooks I used for journaling. My hands were stained. They felt like a manifestation of my wounds. There were tears. There was suffering. Everything because I can't forget those who hurt me, or forgive myself when I accidentally hurt other people. In fact, I held myself accountable for everything that's happened to me.

I never imagined such an episode of dissociation would take a massive toll on me. I can't even call anyone for help. I don't trust my country's helpline because I was once answered by a fried chicken restaurant. It stops being an urban legend once it happens to you.

But there was no blood. There were no injuries.
Just two severely stained notebooks and three lost pens, but I already have replacements.
And it will be a while before I wipe out all the ink marks. I'm glad it's black ink; if someone asks, I can say that it was a painting accident...

I'm not courageous enough to open up to close ones about dissociative and psychotic episodes.