Chapter Text
So many people think I can't process my emotions. That I don't know what goes on in my head, can't understand my own thoughts.
I can.
I just don't want to.
I've had enough time with my sick, twisted brain to identify my own thoughts. And that's what scares me so much. Because those thoughts are horrifying.
Recently, I was added to a group chat of people all over the world who all had one shared interest. Several of the ~30 members were acting completely unhinged, talking about anything and everything, and generally being freaky. I, being me, though oh wow! I can act as crazy as I actually am and not censor myself!
That went down like the Titanic.
Myself and one other member of the chat were probably the most unhinged, and as soon as I started talking about one of my interests in fanfiction, that person - the only one who was close to my level of crazy - started calling me a freak, telling me they were tired of my shit, that mental health was no excuse for how I was acting.
They may have been the most aggressive in their discomfort, but I had obviously crossed a line - one that I didn't see, because I never fucking see the lines before I cross them. The entire chat was obviously uncomfortable.
I hadn't taken my antidepressants or mood stabilisers in several days. I was already fragile, feeling like I would shatter at the slightest provocation…and I brought the disgust of more than two dozen people onto myself, because my medicines don't give me much of a filter even when I take them as I'm supposed to.
This was one week ago.
I have twenty-two healing cuts on my torso.
A couple of days after I made those cuts, I discovered that for someone to commit suicide via slitting their wrists, they should cut vertically instead of horizontally. I struggle every day not to try that out.
Everyone thinks I'm fine. I'm supposed to be fine.
I am not fine.