There’s a story for the psychiatrist.

And a story for the psychotherapist.

And then there’s a story for the parents.

There’s a story for acquaintances,

and one for closer of kin.

And then there’s a story untold.

Dreamy dreams

It’s a post-apocalyptic, war-torn-humanity sort of scenario.  We’re forced along a mountainous path. There are no side paths; it’s a one-end, dead-end road. And it ends with a dozen of them. They’ve been awaiting us all along.

There’s nowhere else to go, no other paths to take. So I keep walking until one of them grabs me, and I let him.

There’s nowhere else to go, and I don’t fight back. I know what’s coming, and it’s better to not fight back, I know that much. So he pulls my pants and underwear down, and he’s already hard. I’m not fighting back. But he wants me to cry, he wants me to struggle, if only just a little. And he’s prolonging the entry.

So I do, I cry, though only for the show.

And when he cums, he’s no longer pinning me to the wall. I slide down, a spineless, boneless sack of flesh on the dirt road in convulsions of grief, pain, but mainly grief for humanity. Blood and semen trickle out of me, finding their way down my thighs into a messy whole.

I want to burst open, but it won’t let me. This life won’t let me.


My mind’s as foggy as my sight. I try to put them in place. Waking is hard. Sight refocusing harder. There are two bodies next to me. I try again. Once more, to focus, to refocus. The bed, the bodies. There, refocused.

A ceiling, like any other; a room, unlike any I know.  I’m neither dressed, nor naked.

I’d like to be naked. I wish I was naked. But as it is, pants down to my knees, I’m not naked.

There’s blood on the sheets, and more blood on my thighs, and theses bodies are slowly coming to life the same speed as mine.  I need to exit the scene.

I’m nowhere near the door when they come to life.

You signed it. You signed yourself up. They hold up a piece of scrap paper, signed, by me, for whatever they did.

All the wrong things to say

In all blinding honesty, I’ve been suffering from depression for over a decade, since the start of the teens, the thirteens, to be exact. I’ve checked myself in with the wrong psychiatrist at the age of 17 and another wrong one at the age of 21.  I’m a prolific liar, but I care too much about everyone I love, and I live for you all only.

2012 was a breaking point, and I was lucky enough to end up in the right care. Shouldn’t have that happened in 2002? Yeah, but we’re buidling character, right?

I don’t want to be quoted on anything vegan- or doggie- related, but I do want to be quoted on this.  And I hope noone has to go through their families and closest loved ones questioning them in any similar way.

So, here, all the wrong fucking things to say:

  1. “You choose to wallow in despair.” In fact, it’s the next best thing to eating death-by-chocolate cake.  (Though, truly, it’s not a choice.)
  2. “You’re just in a bad mood.  Why don’t you go jogging, talk to a friend, spend years in psychotherapy, meditate, do yoga, or indulge in homeopathy?”  Been there, done that. Please see no.1.
  3. “Medication is needlessly invasive and should be a short-term help only.”  With all its mind-numbing side effects, medication makes me feel the way you do when you wake up on an average Wednesday. And that, my friend, is pretty average and pretty damn good.
  4. “You just have too much time on your hands.” Are you implying fake-till-you-make-it?
  5. “You are just too sensitive.” Well, whatever the diagnosis, doctor, we’re working on that.
  6. “You are too weak to deal with everyday life.” Well, yes, but at the same time the implied makes you an ignorant idiot.
  7. “I just worked a twelve-hour day, I should go on fucking antidepressants.” Oh, yeah, mock me some more.
  8. “We all have our issues.” I’m all ears.
  9. “Think rationally”.  I believe that is NOT a choice.