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DarthRonin

1.

Pain is physical but it is still just a chemical signal within our heads. When emotional pain becomes so great it only makes sense to feel it physically. All of this electrical activity in our neurons is the same no matter what causes it. When some one is too depressed they can prescribe a downer to counteract the effect. When the emotional pain becomes so hard, so strong, that is when I cut.
The true physical pain counteracts the emotional pain which has become so strong. In a form of self-hypnosis I convince myself that the blood running out of the wound is the evil, the bad, the pain I can’t express. In Tai Chi they teach to visualize negative energy such as anger stress and pain being exhaled. My practice is no different.
Try telling that to these bastards sitting in the small rooms. They all have different faces but in the end they are the same blank page. They get paid obscene amounts of money for me to talk to them. I write my own story on the blank page looking at me and then the page reads it back to me. I am told this should help. They offer no help except for the zombie pills.
The pills only offer help in the same way that the weed and vodka help yet they tell me that the weed and vodka are the reason I am here. I guess really there are four reasons that I’m here but this blank paper in front on me only knows two of them because I haven’t written the other two down for it yet. In my eyes the real reason I’m here is the fascist system which arrested me for a crime where I was the only victim. The real criminals are the assholes who think they have some kind of right to hold me against my will and tell me society has an obligation to help me. I was helping myself just fine. Society can go fuck it’s self.
So society that is one of the reasons I am here that I haven’t told the paper yet. The other two were on the police report, but I’m sure the records are wrong as usual. Society being wrong again, sheep believing the lies; Yes I was drunk and high and yes I cut myself deeply. They think that I got drunk and high and wanted to kill myself, morons. Blame the drugs; blame the booze, why not? I still can’t believe they pay these losers so much money to be so wrong. Yes I want to die, no I don’t want to kill myself. Big fucking difference incase they don’t know it. How would they know, I haven’t told them yet.
Fucking blank sheets of paper, all they do is wait for me to talk. Blank stares from blank eyes showing the blank souls underneath. No original thoughts ever, just sucking in all of my thoughts and blurting out the opinions of other morons whom they’ve read about. They sit and do nothing all week and collect the fat checks on Friday so they can make another payment on the split level castle in the Land of Boredom. Go home and watch survivor and fuck their spouse because they have to once a month to prove they are still in love. Then they sit drunk and wonder why they hate their lives so much every New Year’s Eve while somewhere Auld Lang Syne plays.
Yeah I was drunk and high, that’s why I drank the vodka and smoked the pot. Yeah I cut myself, I always cut myself. I was too far gone, the pain was very dull. I didn’t realize how deep the cuts were. I did need a doctor, and when he was done with me I had 28 stitches in my chest and hard restraints on. It was just a lapse in judgment, that’s all. I know not to cut when I’m that high. Normally I don’t need to either, the weed and vodka take away the pain. The pain was just bad this time.
The pain is the other reason I’m here, the other one I haven’t told them yet. Why should I tell them? They won’t understand. They can’t understand. They can’t know how I feel, they don’t feel. They have souls incapable of it. Souls that feel create things they make art. All the blank pages can do is suck up my thoughts and horde them because they are to stupid to have any thoughts of their own beyond those necessitated by survival.
I have stared at the blank paper for 45 minutes now, my hour is almost up. They say the hour has 50 minutes and call me crazy. Not only are they stupid unfeeling soulless blank pages used as a fascist tool, they are hypocrites too. In so many ways they really are hypocritical. They tell me it is alright to be me and to be the person I am. They say not everyone is the same and that’s ok. They tell me here that we have to share truth. They lie to me. If I am allowed to be me, then why do they want to change me? Lies.
All I have ever known are lies. It’s just what I expect, I am not disappointed. I am not a saint, I lie as well. I lie when it benefits me and tell the truth when that benefits me. This isn’t to say that you can never trust me. I always tell my friends the truth because that always benefits me. I never trust anyone else though, they will all lie to me sometime and finally they will all hurt me and then leave me.
Leaving isn’t the worst thing they can do, some of them leave reminders of themselves. Scars, deep wounds I can never heal from. It’s like everyone I have ever known decided to see what fun ways they could hurt me, how they could mark me and make me damaged goods. That is what I am, fucked-up and broken. This blank sheet in front of me can’t understand that either. Some people are just meant to suffer and that is what I do. I do drugs to help me not mind the suffering so much. Why can’t they just let me suffer and I promise I would leave them alone to be stupid and blank.
This page looks at me differently then the rest. It is still blank and only tells me the same things I tell it with the exception of recycled useless garbage, but somehow though the stare feels different. They have all looked and waited for me to talk and I have not. They trade me off to see if I like one stoke of paper more then another. So far I have liked none of them.
49 minutes ago the man who acts like my friend brought me into the room and then the she-page asked me to sit down. I didn’t blink, I know the rules. It’s a contest, If I blink first I lose and then she would think she knew something about me. She stands up and the contest is over. Have I won or is it a draw? She speaks for the first time in over a half hour, “You are going to join a group this morning.”
I blink, damn it. She looked me in the eyes and I blinked. It’s all over now.
“The group is for substance abusers. It starts at 10:15 and lasts until lunch at noon. No more laying around and ignoring everything. You are going to need to start interacting.”
I stare, the game restarted. Although I know that in a minute Mac will come back in the door and take me to the group room. I will sit in whichever chair he tells me to for fear of whatever new zombie pill they will force on me if I resist. I’ll have to be alone with my thoughts in a new room full of strangers for 25 minutes until the group starts. Over the past two weeks worth of meals I haven’t eaten I have heard everything. It seems everyone goes to one group or another. They all work the same way, some blank page tries to turn a whole group of victims into a whole ream of blank pages. Too lazy to take down our thoughts themselves they rely on us to start doing it too.
As if a director has just cued him Mac walks in, “Hey Buddy,” he says this as if it’s my name, “Time to make a bunch of new friends!”
Silently I express the joy which fills me.

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The Force is Strong with this one.

 

imported_Lebowski4Prez

Is this an autobiography?...either way, very well written, very good detail and I feel like I really understand the transitions from topic to topic...

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Life's Pretty Fucked Up Right NowShouldn't I Be

XT Dream

"Best left untitled if you keep it.
I like it.
You Describe everything very well.

I am also a writer."

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" Jobs and Haircuts.
Two of my greatest fears.
Reality too.
Amen.