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by Angel Woolsey 5 years ago in schizophrenia
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The Mind Sometimes Knows Best

I AM TIMID. I am a child. Wrapped up in nothing more than my dreams and fears.

I AM SMALL. I am an insect. Little to those who pay no attention, but a burden to those I’m near.

I AM WEAK. I am a heart. Fragile to the touch of love and full of fear.

I AM NOTHING. I am a void. Empty and unforgiving, just as the world had been to me.

I view myself in the most negative light. I’ve never been taught otherwise. I was never told my weight was normal or that my hair fell the right way or that I was beautiful the way I am. I’ve been abused. I scream loudly, “AN INJUSTICE HAS BEEN SERVED HERE!” Why does nobody hear me? Why do my screams not echo and roar and make waves in peoples’ hearts? Why does no one pay the slightest attention? Why was there no justice served? Did I just cry wolf? Oh no.

I am insolent. I have a superiority complex and the social ability of an anxiety-ridden teen. Now what do I do? I AM BETTER THAN EVERYONE. However, I could never tell anyone. What happens if they stand up to me? I have no point to back myself up. I just know I’m better. How foolish of me. I have no proof, nor do I seek any.

HOW DO I STOP THIS? My mind is a typewriter. It flows and flows and the chattering I hear “tap tap tapping” through my head at night; I can’t sleep tonight! MAKE IT STOP! I hate typewriters now. How melodious the keys are when they type love stories that make your heart flutter. Now, they just sound like someone is smashing the buttons, not accounting for me and my feelings. MAKE IT QUIET! They overshadow my voice and I can no longer make noise because the noises you hear are only those of the typewriter that the man in the corner incessantly bangs on.

MAKE HIM LEAVE! Tell the man to go away. Tell him that perhaps I’ll see him another day and then send the man on his way. His long, dark hair and nails painted black captivate me and paralyze me with fear. He lures me. With his whispered taunts and bright green eyes, how can I resist to follow? It’s a game of tag, but I’m unable to catch him. He is everywhere and everything. He trips me when I run and only stops when my knees and elbows are skinned to the bone. He laughs at the sight of my blood dripping and tells me it’s a shame a pretty girl like me fell. That dark figure, that man who torments me, who was he to tell me I was pretty? Who was he to laugh at me the way he did? Where did he go?

I am nothing more than alone. I feel so insignificant to everyone I meet. Yet the man, the figure, my tormentor. He must’ve felt I was significant. He called me pretty. Anyone who tells me I am pretty must find me significant. How am I to accept love, yet I can’t return it? I feel so empty—loveless. Lust keeps me going. The thought of me sleeping with you is enough to keep me here. That man, that spiteful man tells me to run. He tells me you will kill me. I’d let you. Please. End me. Before you go, before my death; hold me, kiss me, so passionately it hurts. Tell me you’ll never love another the way you love me. Well, loved. Let me tell you my darkest secrets, then ruin me. Teach me why destruction is what I truly lust for.

The typewriter still chatters at night. That’s my only peace. The destruction of the world around me has no freedom within it. I am confined. I am a caged bird, HEAR ME SING! I sing about the mountains being bombed and the mothers mourning children. I sing about the violence and the pain. About the fear of the game. Not knowing my name. It’s incessant. I am tired. Never have I felt so alone. I stand next to you telling you about the world around us and you ignore the signs. You tell me not to worry and that you have this under control. There is nothing I can do to help or save you. I’m praying for you. I doubt the existence of a god, but for you, just for you, I’d believe anything was real. How naïve of me, I swear. I trusted you to not hurt me, but I think back to the man who told me to run. The one who told me that you would kill. The one who writes my nightmares about you. He warned me and I ignored. I hate myself.


About the author

Angel Woolsey

A young adult who struggles with personality conflicts, mental trauma and admitting her faults. My experiences do not define me, just as your experiences should not define you.

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