dream[un]ended

What were once my personality traits are now symptoms. I'm no longer just a person; I'm a medical candidate. A doctor's creation. They give me pills so I can be 'normal'; be my real self. But maybe who I really am isn't a drugged, semi-happy, calm individual. I'm a nervous wreck and I cry every hour for no reason. I get angry and I break things and I contemplate murder. I hear whispers in my head. I scream at no one because I think someone is there. I don't leave the house because I'm convinced everyone will kill me. And I get suicidal. Maybe that's who I really am, and these pills just make me tolerable. They cover up how ugly I am with prescriptions to make me seem beautiful, but it's not real. Take these, they say: they'll give you the ability to smile. And these: they'll calm your nerves enough for you to operate like one of us. But at what point does one decipher the difference between what is acceptable and what isn't? You give me drugs to get high so I can be just apathetic enough to have only room left for the happiness the other pills synthesize for me. I feel no other emotions. I'm not allowed to. But what if I want to be unstable? What if I want to be paranoid, obsessive, manic depressive, and anxious all the time? What if I just want to be the real—and I mean the real, unfiltered, unaffected me. What if one day, I just stopped taking my pills. Everyone would cry, "You're not yourself, Jes! You need help! Take your medication!" but I am myself. I am every inch of myself untouched and unchanged, my organic brain sending the signals the way it always has; the way it naturally does. But then I'm unpleasant, unstable, a 'nightmare'. So I take the pills. I take the pills and I accept that I need to be toned down to be cared for. But as a result, I don't really know who or what I am. But there is a part of me I'll never lose sight of, and I always know it's there. By sacrificing the answers to all my questions, I make the people in my life happy. No matter what pills I swallow or let dissolve under my tongue, no matter what anyone could ever inject me with. . . I love. And I love the people in my life enough to suck it up and take the meds. Be pretend-happy. Be pretend-calm. Be pretend-sane. That's the person they love, afterall; the drugged me. And I don't want to lose them. So, I just accept that I am no longer really human, and much more akin to robot. If that's what it takes to be loved, then by all means, fill my prescriptions. I'll take every pill faithfully, as I do.

At some point in my life thus far I managed to convince myself that not a single task is worth partaking in, nor a single decision worth being made, if no one will recognize and/or appreciate it. For someone like me, coming to such a conclusion is crippling.

I'm a whirlwind of emotions as of late; my eyes are spinning and my heart is palpitating and my muscles are deteriorating, all because my mind keeps tricking me, my heart keeps bribing me, and my gut - that beautiful gut... it just waits for me to do the right thing, which is to listen to it. But goddamn is that ever hard to do sometimes. But I always do my best to go in the direction my gut drags me. As hard as it is, I don't listen to my heart, no - it beats to deceive. Nor will I listen to my mind, a frozen wasteland. But my gut? It just... knows. And I always listen to it, and it's always right.

It took me the longest time to learn to make my decisions this way. I'd always want to follow what my heart told me it longed for, or what my mind told me was a logical decision. But my gut never told me anything. It never even tried to convince me, because it knows it doesn't have to. It's correct in its own lack of emotion.

But when I'm the only one on this earth who experiences my own gut, and not anyone else's - it's hard. They don't understand just how scared I am about ignoring its warnings; and just how weak my mind & heart are in comparison. They don't experience the fear, and thus aren't forced to deal with the consequences, nor do they understand your attempt to do so.

. . .




. . .

In consequence, I'm insecure. I don't know what to think, I don't know what to do. And I hate that I say. I regret every spoken word, even if it isn't exactly what you'd call a 'mistake'. Signs of happiness within me are a playful attitude & affectionate demeanor. Yet ordinarily, I'm quite the deadpan. I don't speak much and I'm pathetically humble & underwhelmed as a presence. I've grown to accept this, and those who hold me dear to them have grown to love it. But when I'm happy, I am nothing like this. When I am happy - whatever 'happy' is - I am, for once, something. Anything. And it's, to put it bluntly: strange.

I believe our perceptions of happiness are self-made. Perhaps I've just placed mine a little too far away from my own reach, to the point that I've extended my arm beyond its flesh barrier and it's snapped, having me inevitably tossed back into an oblivion of confusion. Should I keep stretching my abilities in unrealistic proportions, in order to reach something I myself am subconsciously setting on the tallest shelf? Or should I leave it there, in fact scaring it with my misery and pushing it as far from me as I can, achieving a distance so widespread I could never even dream of embracing it in my arms. Perhaps, this way... I have a goal. Perhaps then, when the day comes where I lay in my dying state, I will open my mouth and speak words for the last time, ensuring they be nothing but: "I am happy." Just so I know I got there.

. . . In the meantime, happy belated birthday to me.

There is something about today that has stricken me as so unfathomably different that to articulate my expression in itself is a task. I am unsure if it's the spring weather having refreshed the purity of my being or if my ritualistic spiritual healing as of late is really becoming worth every dollar. But for some reason today is just... different. Perhaps my subconscious is playing a joke on me and this is all just a prank in celebration of April 1st. Perhaps right now my brain cells are roaring about the round table and clashing their goblets to the idea that Jes - yes, me: Jes - actually feels a tad jolly today.

I'm really not used to this. Not only is my head not used to smiling but the entire system that is my body; it feels, to put it plainly, 'off'. Where are my grey skies? All of this blue is giving me a headache. I'm almost out of Tylenol since this morning and I'm about to lock myself in a bleak closet so I can bask in the comfort that is my personal black cave. Is it perhaps intimidation I am feeling? Am I intimidated by a healthy dose of happiness? Or is my anxiety taking advantage of the difference and causing every cheap giggle I slip to echo about the walls of my membrane, back & forth, back & forth; until it drives me insane.

I don't know and I hate the fact that I don't know what I don't know.

. . . Alas. The past short while I've been reluctant to update. To begin I've lost the will to share and gained the moral knowledge required to realize it's rather useless to do so anyway. But then again, my confidence to believe anyone even cares has rotted away (what little was left of it that is) - so the aforementioned could be born from this. Even as I type I'm hesitant, but persistent in getting this done anyhow. Now, with all of that out of the way, here's to end.

My life as of late has included not much more than shaking realizations of my health and a dramatic spreading of the news, and vivid nightmares to follow. I've been spending much time with my cat and my boyfriend and my doctors. Yet despite all of this, I sometimes believe I'm feeling as positive as ever. Only this time, life is more real, and it's not as light-hearted. But what matters is it still exists. I've been working on various artworks, writings, tattoo designs, etc. to keep myself busy & to keep my mind going to be sure that it doesn't deteriorate. My birthday is at the end of this month and for the first time since I was a little girl I am looking forward to it being an enjoyable experience, and am determined to make it so.

. . .




An image of my boyfriend. Contrary to the popular belief, all I'd edited into the photo were the red eyes; the rest is natural. This is an appropriate example of what I've been spending the majority of time alone on. This image, and Zelda.