Pillowcase

Incomplete

When I was a teenager, I believed I was losing my mind. It seemed then, as if I was losing my grasp on everything I’d clung so tightly to. Whether it was my friends or partners or dreams, they all suddenly seemed unattainable and I slipped slowly, and then rather quickly, into madness. My whole perspective, as did the world it seemed, shifted and I found myself at the first of what would be many rock bottoms. I have never wanted anything more than how badly I wished to stop being. How easy it would have been to leave my story incomplete. Remarkably, although I am still unsure as to how, I managed to come away from that bottom and today it is an entirely new form of madness. The life is no longer going to be unfinished. There will be an end, but perhaps the quality of the life is what will remain incomplete. And the insanity that seeks me now is from not being able to escape the constant mental flogging. It is the relentless booming voice that breaks me down into an uncountable number of pieces. So I surround myself with beautiful people who all love and care for me. I occupy my time with forms of expression that are free, legal, and liberating. And all of this quiets the cacophony rattling in my skull but even still I cannot avoid the assault onto my person by my own person. I am at once filled with so much hate and so much love. I am both proud and ashamed of all the things that I’ve done. However after this division of my very being I have now found myself on the outside of everything. Now, I do not belong here. Here in my bedroom, in my job, in my city, or in my country. I don’t belong anywhere, it seems. And I don’t belong to anyone and none belong to me. It is daily that I feel like I’m even outside of my body. Like one shakes a pillow down into a pillow case I need something to shake me back down into my skin and put me back together.

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