the anger continued

but we turned a teary blind eye.

a kick to the puppy here, a smack to a toddler there.

what the fuck is wrong with you?

now, the only one your love would let you pick on was her.

once she found out what you did with those girls

she was furious.

so you obeyed, and stopped getting physcial.

what i saw every other weekend was just childish

i'm was disappointed in you.

you, rolling your eyes, arguing like a middle schooler.

scotch for scott every night, huh?

why did i adore you?

why was i blind until now?

none of us thought you were going to go this far.

i cant imagine what the little one thought when she found you

guilty

thumb pressed into your loves neck

hand wrapped around the back

watching ruthlessly while she flailed.

she says she wasn't sure you'd ever stop

but her baby-blue eyed daughter heard the noise

and by some form of fate

saved her moms life.

she had to watch her mom at her worst.

do you realize what you fucking did to her?

no, you don't. or you wouldn't have.

fuck you.

thinking about the cops cuffing you-

the man i always looked up to

it breaks my heart, dad.

pickles wrapped in cheese and baloney sandwiches in the trailer.

blowing bubbles in the kitchen while you were on a work call.

we watched nemo a dozen times and monsters inc a hundred at least.

i was 6. i was happy.

then, you met her. the love of your life.

that proved itself to be a lie. The last of many.

hot cocoa with my new stepsister while she took my old spot on the couch.

i was too young to be happy for you, but jealousy has no age minimum.

when I was 8, there was a wedding. then babies. blue-eyed tiny twin girls.

i loved their little blonde heads and pink hands.

i really thought you did too.

then when i was nine, i realized the monster wasn't under my bed, but tucking me into it.

sitting in your big green recliner, listening to the real-life movie playing from the girl's bedroom upstairs to the right.

SLAP

SCREAM.

i sat there with a hand clasped over my mouth, keeping myself as muted as a third-grader can.

why were you hitting infants? how did you get so mad you took your let your calloused palm scare and scar their innocent faces? you are a grown man!

then

you had the audacity to come downstairs and ask me to get you ice cream.

and I had the audacity to smile and make sure to drizzle extra caramel on top.

Sometimes, my brain gets sort of all stuffed up. Too much of everything quick and cheap; none of that healthy, whole grain happiness insight. It's hard for me to get dressed without a youtube video playing in the background, some stupid video I've seen in other forms a thousand times in a row. Sometimes when I'm feeling strong-willed I get disgusted with it and turn it off, clicking the power button harder than nessacary.

I have all these new friends. We had a sleepover, but there were no deep moments of real intimacy to me, I just felt like a performer. It's not like I have to pretend to be happy or something. because I am. Just like what I'm saying isn't what I'm thinking. I feel like my thoughts fly out from under me. I think about them later, and can't even remember if I told huge lies or what I said about my childhood. It's almost like my ability to think is gone, Maybe it's as simple as putting the black box down. But then what?

When I put everything away is when I realize how fucking sick I am. Guys, something is really not right. I've told my friends, but I immediately downplay it. I even faked having a panic attack at my new best friend's house, to prove to her it wasn't that bad. But it is. It really really is.

It's not something normal, and it's not cliche, which makes it worse for me because no one has ever mentioned feeling like this. But I have to put it out there somewhere so someone can at least fakely relate. This post isn't going to be cutely crafted like all these others because I need you to feel the urgency, I need you to feel my heart rate rising.

It started one day at work. A panic attack out of nowhere. I'm not a usually anxious person, at all. I'm suave and cool, I promise. But suddenly I was scribbling crazy words on receipt paper feeling dizzy, wondering if I should call the police or a smart therapist with good glasses. I managed the get through it but it did something to me.

Things started to feel like they weren't happening. It's hard to explain when I'm not stuck in the mindset currently, but I'll do my best. It's like, I look around, and people talk to me, but it's really hard for me to react to what they are saying because I feel like no matter what I say, I'll get the same response or a highly predictable one. It feels like I'm the only one in the whole world. This feeling of permanent isolation so petrifying it makes me understand suicide. Because this is the problem: there is no one who can save me from going crazy.

This what happens:

1. Some thought makes me think I'm not real, or that someone else is controlling what I do and say. And then I think everyone else is being controlled like me.

2. I keep having repeating thoughts that confirm it, like walking downstairs and then thinking to myself "how did I just do that?"

3. Everything everyone says or does become meaningless.

4. The panic starts that I'll be stuck like that, and that's when I start breathing heavy.

5. The thoughts in my head get so loud I can hear them and cant make them go away, and I can't find any valid distraction.

6. It gets so bad that I called the suicide hotline once, the lady answered and said "hello? are you ok?" and I immediately thought she was a fake person and hung up the phone.

The problem with how I feel is that it keeps getting worse and I don't know how to get out of it when it happens. My goddamn therapist downplays it with an "ellen your not going crazy, you just need to breathe through it."

I feel like I'm getting more insane every day.

At first, it was happening like every 2 weeks, now every 2-3 days. I feel like it's gonna grab me and steal me, and it's just a matter of time. I don't think I'm going to kill myself, but when I'm in that headspace it feels like I'm never gonna get out, and if I got stuck in it for a week straight, I can definitely understand why I would. I would try and tell someone first, but then again would I? Because if I think they aren't real or can't relate to me in any way, why would I care if they "care"? I don't know what happened to me. Even if I scream for help it's like I'm in outer space.

My mom knows, but she fucking hates me for it. She thinks I'm faking it. I wish to FUCK I was. I woke up this morning at 5 am and didn't recognize my own face in the mirror!

Every time I look at myself I get scared. It's like I'm in a state of existential crisis all the time, and it feels like I'm constantly dying. I'm supposed to get medicine soon, but what about when that doesn't work? I start to not recognize myself or hear my own voice or know what I'm saying when I'm talking. It's like I'm not me, or I'm possessed or something. I don't know what to do. I've never felt like this before. Ever. I feel like the world is a set, and I'm just acting in it. NOTHING FEELS REAL.

It's all been far too much.

the first time he told me he didn’t like me all that much

the first urge came

and i grabbed you from behind my wrinkled homecoming dress

and held you. you seemed grateful, and vice versa.

4 days ago

the worst attack yet

when i thought i wasn’t real

and couldn’t speak or exhale

you were brought out

and left out.

not as a precautionary measure, but

as a reminder that you are here.

thank you.

you survived the first round of growing up;

when i tossed out mrs. mama pig and my tie-dye backpack.

for some reason, giving you away felt like a sin.

i see now, i was being prepared.

you were stuffed in a drawer for years

because you weren't cool enough.

but you didn't mind.

3 years before he pulled the trigger

he came into our room one night

i was crying on the top bunk

my brother had told me about ghosts.

through the annoyance of a 3am organic alarm, he told me convincingly;

"they aren't, but if ghosts were real, why would they ever hurt such a good girl?"

i propped you on my chest after he closed the door

and i swear you agreed with him.

you remember that, don't you?

at six, i remember her

swaddling you in the blanket named "silkie"

putting her fingers under your arms

and doing that nasally voice

"you've got to go to school in the morning"

a bop with your fluff-coated paw on my nose

"we have got to get our sleep."

i’m sure i cried for you at walmart when i was 2 or something;

and to get me to quiet, mom (23) put you in the cart.

thats how all good things begin.

when I was 4 I dragged you around to the neighbors apartment

scared to death their dog was going to attack you.

was that even me?

that time no longer exists

and we never even held a funeral.

that is the song that inspired my recent career change in my future life. It went from preschool teacher to my biology teacher laughing at that idea to a lawyer to realizing I might have to then defend bad people. Then I wanted to be a pretty respected and pretty paramedic, I say that because I saw a blonde one with navy medical pants go through my self checkout. People like her, I'm sure. She's one of the boys. One of the Men. She is the Man.

But, blood makes me gag.

So, I will own a nightclub instead I think. A cool one, with a restarurant in the back that sells hamburgers, the thick ones. I think it will be called 6-8.

the opposite of a 9-5.

Sounds fun, huh?

She was 2 when it happened.

Little enough to eventually forget,

But big enough to feel the absence.

They had to bust down the door to get in,

To find him in there, all alone on the floor.

The new door they put on is red. It’s ugly.

She toddled around, noticing something out of place.

“Mommy, why you crying?” Her little eyebrows scrunch up.

Mommy gets upset when she breaks character, when the door opens.

“No, sweetie.” An unconvincing smile, as she holds the baby's head in her hands,

pushing little curls behind little ears.

“Mommy's alright. Mommy’s okay.” She swallows hard. Not the first lie, not the last.

She hugs her baby to her chest, hiding the contradictory tears.

A week after the fatal drunken shot,

The mailman rang the doorbell.

She rushes up to the door, a big little-toothed smile there on display.

“Daddy’s home! Daddy’s home!”

Mommy turns her head, covers her mouth, with a drying, choking sob. The kind that hurt.

A 5th grade girl picks the baby up.

“Not yet, but soon. Don’t worry, okay?”

“Okay.” She says with the trusting grin of a toddler.

That’s the worst lie I’ve ever told.