Lately, over the past few nights, I've been unable to sleep. I've been feeling very anxiety-struck, nervous, and all-around messed up in the head. I needed a way to vent, and these stories are what came of it. My stories usually deal with mental health and the issues regarding it. I doubt there's anybody here who would care or be offended, but you can't be too carefull so I'll warn you now- my stories include freqeunt strong language. Enjoy~
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Her
There she is again. Her, and her ******** perfect existence. Flawless. Usually when I get to know someone, I can pick out that person’s flaws easily. Not her. Alright, she can be a b***h now and again, I suppose that counts as a flaw. That makes me feel better. There she is. There… and there. She’s everywhere in my eyes. My mind only sees her. I obsess over something I’ll never have. I obsess over every single possible detail when it comes to what she thinks of me, and while I wish I didn’t care, while I wish I could be one of those countless people that puts up a front and pretends not to give two shits about what anybody thinks, I do care. Every detail must be perfect, no matter how insignificant. Did I word that sentence right? No, I ******** didn’t, I could have said something else and I didn’t. That ruins it all. It all turned to s**t now, good ******** job. She thinks I’m a ******** loser now. She’s gonna go talk to someone else now, and God knows she’ll do just fine in that department. She’s got an absurd amount of friends. And I’m just one, tiny, insignificant, meaningless one. Just another friend. Nothing more, nothing less. She doesn’t think of me during the day, of course she ******** doesn’t. Why would she? She doesn’t know that I constantly think about her. Not an hour, let alone a day, goes by without me thinking of her. I check her MySpace page more than anyone else’s. Even though I know damn well that she hasn’t put anything new on, I check it anyway. Because it makes me feel close to her, and that’s the closest I’ll ever get.
She doesn’t check my page. She doesn’t think of me all the time. I would be surprised if she even liked me. Of course she ******** likes me, if she didn’t then she wouldn’t talk to me. Although I’m the one that starts the conversation 80% of the time. I always wonder if, when I finally IM her, she sits at her computer and thinks, “Oh ********… it’s him. Jesus…” I bet she does. After all, I’ve done that many times with other people, why should it be any different on her end. Because she hasn’t been depressed for the last two years. Because she isn’t constantly swarmed with anxiety and compulsive thoughts. Sure, she’s helped me though some anxiety attacks in the past. Three anxiety attacks. Probably the best three ******** nights of my life.
Maybe she does enjoy my company. I doubt it, but it’s possible. Who am I kidding, no it’s not. I’m sure that she doesn’t. I wouldn’t if I were her. But that’s not saying much considering there isn’t a soul on this planet that hates me more than myself. Every single detail… every detail and I try to hide or fix when I’m around her. I bet she sees right though me, but then again there’s not much I’m putting up for her to see through. I try to seem more impressive that I really am. I wonder if it works… I’ll never know. Not unless I ask her, but why the ******** would I do that? Why would I even mention any of this to her? I wouldn’t.
I’m not attracted to her. I don’t want to hook up with her, or sleep with her or whatever. I just want to BE with her. Romantic, but not sexual. She’s not attracted to me. She would never think of me that way, and likewise. But I have thought of her that way. Yes, I used to. But interestingly, those thoughts have dissolved. Completely died, in fact. It’s bizarre, I know. But I guess it’s not a surprise. The truth is, despite what I say, I don’t know if she’s attracted to me or now. I don’t know why I said I’m not attracted to her, I am. And I DO want to live out those thoughts. But then the rational side of me takes over and forces the attraction into a place where I can't reach... for now.
I’m just a walking contradiction. I don’t know what I want. I don’t know if I’ll ever know what I want. We’re complete opposites with hardly anything in common. She’s her and I’m me. That all it ever was, and that’s all it ever will be. Unless I make a move, which, knowing me, will never happen. It won’t happen like that. Nothing will happen. We’ll go our separate ways, and I’ll be left with all the s**t I should’ve faced, all the things I should’ve done, all the questions I should’ve asked, and those three words I never said.
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Normal
There’s no such thing as normal. Not anymore. You may think you are. You may think you have everything under control, and there’s not a goddamn thing in the world that’s wrong with you; health-wise. But you’re wrong. Oh, are you wrong… according to the professionals of course. They make a living off of telling you that you’re ******** up in the head. If you tell them that you’ve been particularly anxious lately, they label you with Anxiety Disorder. If you tell them that you wash your hands a bit more than the average person does, they stick an OCD label on you. They’ll find something – anything. And they’ll rip it open and tell you what’s wrong with you. And they’ll prescribe pills. Because in today’s society, pills make everything better. There’s not a ******** thing in the world that some pills can’t fix. At least they like to believe that.
They had me evaluated today. ********’ evaluated. Do you believe this? I’m irritable, so therefore there must be something wrong with me. They sit me down and talk to me, for only about fifteen minutes. This man must be excellent at his job, because after only fifteen minutes of talking to me, he determines I suffer from bipolar disorder. I never knew much about psychology or mental disorders, but I guess now it doesn’t take much time to determine what disorder your patient is suffering from. Either that or the psychologist is just late for his reservation at Outback and is just trying to hurry things along.
Bipolar, they tell me. ******** you, I tell them. I tell them that they’re restricting people’s very nature to be whatever they are. I tell them that they’re throwing the diagnostics at anyone who wants one; anyone who appears to be even the slightest bit abnormal. I say to them, for pretty much every ******** personality, there’s a disorder to match it. I’m yelling now, ******** screaming. I defy you to show me one person who would pass your evaluation without you concluding that they have a meaningless, bullshit disorder, I yell at them. I’m being restrained now, being pulled away. ******** clinic workers. They have something wrong with them too, no doubt. Sign them up for evaluation next, a*****e. s**t, why don’t we just make evaluation manatory for everyone? Then the whole ******** world can be medicated, and we can all be one big, numbed out community of psychology zombies. They’d like that, wouldn’t they?
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