this is my mind

tw: mention of suicidal thoughts, anxiety

this is my mind.

it’s jumpy, especially at three in the morning, when it feels like a highway in a really populated city where the apartments are too expensive to actually live in.

people call me absentminded. airheaded. scatterbrained. i’m not. i’m more like an iceberg. (this metaphor is kind of cliché, but it’s true, so can we pretend for a second i’m the first person typing about it at a laptop computer? ok?)

people call me airheaded because all they see is the forgetting to load the dishwasher and only hearing one thing when people mention five and forgetting where the hell i left my jacket and only realizing three days later that my keys are in my jacket pocket, and that’s why i can’t find them.

people call me careless. i don’t think i’ve ever been careless. i’m just too busy taking care of something i don’t ever let other people in on. because they do not deserve to get in on my secret garden.

they’ll just tell you the flowers are stupid, and i’ll tell them it’s all i’ve spent my life working towards, and then we’ll be screaming at each other, and then i’ll tell you you’re wrong on the outside, but on the inside… it feels like you’re right.

this is my mind.

sometimes i like to think of it like a ghost, haunting me, but constantly.

this is my mind.

when it falls down, it takes the easiest paths it can find. and every time i fall down the same path, it gets worse. and worse. and worse. like i’m a riverbed: the more times water takes the path of least resistance, the harder it becomes for it to escape.

once you know how to do something, and you’re panicking, and so obviously… you’d rather take the beaten path than venture into what literally feels like wild bush in the middle of nowhere, and in your mind, if you get lost—a small part of me is always scared, at every fork in the road i take, that i won’t be able to come back.

so most of the time, i fall down that groove.

that groove looks a lot like hurting myself.

that groove looks like falling and lying there on the carpet that sort of smells like dust looking up at the white ceiling, all alone in the iridescent bubble called my mind.

the bubble i created. the bubble that’s equal parts kingdom and prison.

this is my mind.

most of the time, it’s worried about doing enough.

or not doing enough.

there was a rule i learned when i was younger: if you can’t bench press your own weight, you’re not worth being held when you’re crying.

for the record, athletics are not exactly my strong suit.

so i try to keep things to myself.

this is my mind.

if you ask it to follow rules, it’s going to nod and smile and shove its glasses up its nose and then it’s going to glance down at its toes and it’s not going to do it, because it can’t. that’s not how it works.

this is my mind.

my mom thinks being inside it would be like being in a room where everything you say echoes off the walls, over and over. she’s partially right, but it’s also more complicated than that. in the echoing metaphor, there’s only one person in the room. in my head, there are thousands of people,  all shouting at the concrete walls, their voices bouncing back at each other, intermingling, fighting, dancing, and i’m sort of at the centre, trying to make sense of it all. think being in the middle of the new york stock exchange, so caught up in the voices you forgot where the hell you were supposed to be going.

sometimes i succeed. sometimes i fail. when i fail, i start crying, and when i’m start crying i put on headphones and listen to songs about love, because it feels easier than facing my feelings, because my feelings don’t fucking want to smile in the morning and i know you don’t want me to swear, but how come it’s okay to swear when you drop a hammer on your toe, but not when your mind’s hurting?

how come it’s not okay to look like a mess, but it’s fine if you feel like one?

how come people keep asking me to be perfect when i can’t?

how come i keep trying to be perfect, just like them, even when i know that i can’t?

how come i’m so obsessed with perfection and yet no matter how hard i search for it, i still hate myself?

have you ever held way too many things on one arm and ran as fast as you can for the door, trying to open it with your elbow so you can get in before everything drops?

this is my mind.

sometimes it likes to click things into place. like a puzzle, but inside.

likes to ask questions and research them silently because i was too afraid of how you might respond if you found out the real me.

this is my mind.

i guess i caved in. i’m sorry. you asked too many questions. i don’t want to be annoying, i just want to understand you.

this is my mind.

sometimes i tell people how much i hate it, usually with my face smushed against their shoulder and tears smudged across my cheeks. even when they’re a stranger, because i am so alone in the world that every chance you give me to listen, my mouth falls open and i just. can’t. stop.

this is my mind.

it’ll listen to you if you tell it to shut up most of the time.

this is my mind.

it can’t be perfect it can’t be perfect it can’t be perfect.

this is my mind.

it likes reading because for a moment, it feels like it’s sleeping. really sleeping. not the kind of sleep i get when i close my eyes, where i usually dream about inane things like peeling a tangerine because my mom brought home tangerines when she got off work. (i’m sorry… how do you spend eight hours contemplating a tangerine?) it likes reading things because it’s the only time it doesn’t feel lonely, or overwhelmed. or scared. just safe. when it’s a good book, anyway.

it’s desperate for affection and attention and respect. so desperate that sometimes, it feels like i’m the last living siren on my little island in the ocean, singing whatever pretty things it’ll take to lure you ashore, because i’m desperate for honesty, and yet i seem to be incapable of telling people the whole truth when i’m looking them in the eye.

was there ever a good old days when people were more honest with each other?

i’d like to believe so. just like i’d like to believe my childhood was wonderful. just like i’d like to believe there was a time with no fear, but the reality is, i was born this way.

i couldn’t sleep through the night until i was five. even when i was a baby, i was always crying, like i knew what was coming. the first time i felt suicidal, i was six. the first time i punched myself, i was seven. the first time i changed myself for someone else, i was three. it doesn’t take much to realize that if you’re not the same as other people, they won’t like you.

the point is: it’s not that perfect, and it’s not that easy.

this is my mind.

i’m always tangled up in it a little. so sometimes, i whisper verses to myself. it used to be song lyrics; now it’s verses of poems. sometimes, i write them down. sometimes, i forget them, and maybe that’s okay. there are too many of them anyway.

this is my mind.

it often forgets to drink water and take vitamins and sleep at reasonable hours. i wish it wasn’t like that. but there isn’t enough time, and my head is too loud to listen to everything… the world is too loud to take in everything….

this is my mind.

it gets so angry it burns itself alive sometimes.

this is my mind.

i’ve been told is can be blind

this is my mind.

it’s capable of painting itself. blue. purple. yellow. or maybe it’s with wallpaper this time. whatever. anything happy. anything ok.

i think the gravity of my feelings is so large that i can’t even begin to start feeling them.

so sometimes when i tell you i’m doing fine, sometimes i honestly beleive that’s the truth. when you ask me to pick what i want to do today, sometimes the whole thing just… freezes up. completely. and i stare at the wall with my mouth open unsure why there’s water leaking out of my eyes.

this is my mind.

when you asked me to describe my childhood in one word, the only thing i could think of was emotional. but the runners up would have been pretending and perfectionism and friendship and i love you and help me and don’t and mistakes and self-esteem and homebody and freedom and mum and stressful.

don’t ask. it’s just what popped into my head.

this is my mind.

it can’t believe anything is meaningless anymore than americans can beleive the american dream is hopeless.

this is my mind.

it likes to count its scars sometimes the same way some people like to check their bank statements, just to make sure nothing has changed, and yeah, at some point my scars started to feel like currency i traded for your attention span.

this is my mind.

it’s not as good as pretty as it looks.

this is my mind.

it hurts people sometimes.

when i hurt other people, i hurt myself.

sometimes.

this is my mind.

it likes to look at the birds and the trees and the dust settling on the pages and the strings of hot glue that ended up scattered all over my latest art project and the flowering weeds that still kind of seem beautiful to me, and your eyes, and the sky, even when it’s only daytime.

this is my mind.

it likes to narrate my whole life in third person just so i can imagine the peaceful, black, star-filled silence that comes after the end of a chapter.

that place in my head i keep running towards, where nothing hurts. sometimes i call that place suicide. sometimes i use that word because i am so desperate for your attention and your love and your company and your hand holding mine and also because i hate living in this sticky cloud of honey where everything clings to your skin and i can’t get it off me and i just want that quiet blackness to spend the rest of my life in, even though i don’t.

this is my mind and it needs to tell you the truth or it goes mental.

this is my mind and it screams at the walls with me when i’m home alone and there’s no one to stop me from sounding crazy.

this is my mind and it likes having dance parties when i’m home alone, because for a moment i actually think i could call myself beautiful.

this is my mind and it doesn’t call itself beautiful very often.

this is my mind and it’s been burning like a lantern for a while now, but only on the outside. on the inside, i’ve never really been warmed up by my own heat. not for long, anyway.

this is my mind and it’s boiling.

this is my mind and it’s freezing.

this is my mind and it wants to know the ending the ending the ending.

this is my mind and sometimes i scroll through my whole life in fastforward.

this is my mind and it wants to fight.

this is my mind, and sometimes it hides behind library shelves before it even has the courage to talk to you because i’m not what you think i am, and i’m not brave, and i’m scared of what rejection will do to my psyche.

this is my mind, and it moves too quickly, like there’s a whole swarm of bees inside me.

this is my mind, and it needs help, but help has never felt like enough, and i’ve always been good at smiling, even when i need you desperately, not realizing how close i am to breakdown until i start falling.

this is my mind, and it can’t give up on you, even though it’s been years since we’ve carried out a legitimate conversation and i don’t even know what to say now.

this is my mind, and it wants to run away, somewhere i can fiddle with the silky strands of possibilities and no one tries to stop me this time.

this is my mind.


hi locust people! i know i haven’t been posting in a while, i’ve been super-busy and highly stressed out with promoting/managing goldfishandthemicrophone.com, my main blog, running a poetry club at my high school, sending out work every weekend to a relative, and now i’m doing a year ahead in english for school and i swear my english teacher is trying to make every assignment harder than the last… basically, a lot of stuff. i may or may not be posting a short story soon? it’s about robots. be ready for angst! and glitches and typos and pain and love and alone feelings and all that stuff.

Forests

by justaddbooks

from eating latkes


TRIGGER WARNING: mention of queerbaiting and how it feels sometimes to be the viewer, also just sadness/sentimentality about how some relationships can weaken over time

 

We’re close now, for relatives, but we used to be closer. Like James and Sirius close, never seeing one without the other close. And we used to listen to Harry Potter on tape on long car rides, feeling like familiar stepping stones under our feet. I could quote sections by heart, watching the forest grow deeper outside our window, and she would draw in her sketchbook. The worst fight we ever had was when she said I was unimaginative.

Not rude. Not mean. Not selfish.

Unimaginative.

My brother said this thanksgiving that he felt like we were basically the same person up until we were like… twelve?

Is that what it is?

Some sort of asteroid shoots down from the heavens when you’re twelve and suddenly- boom. There’s some new gaps and holes and blurry lines and spaces you’ll never get back.

We went to the new Harry Potter movie together last weekend (better known as Queerbaiting: A 2 Hour and 13 Minute Film) with our siblings, and we watched as all of our stepping stones were pulled out from under us.

Hint: “You don’t belong here” doesn’t hurt less when it’s muffled, and the fact that we expected this doesn’t make it okay.

We’re close now, for relatives, but we used to be closer.

We used to know when to pull each other out of the forest when it got too deep and when it was okay to stay, to huddle under blankets and draw new universes and build our slowly crumbling bridges back up.

I hope we can learn again.