It’s one thing to be so mentally ill so as to be “as sensitive as a paper-cut asshole” on some days, but it’s another thing entirely to feel like a fucking idiot for having any emotional response at all.

See, I know I’m being illogical a lot of the time. I don’t try and fight it any more, because I’d rather just let it take its course until it dissipates. These moods rarely last more than a few days, but there’s always someone to see if I’m veering dangerously close to a week’s worth of it (pretty sure that’s my limit before I start doing weird shit like not eating / drawing & writing on my own skin excessively / snapping at well-meaning strangers / becoming convinced it’d be nice to hold my breath until it’s painful. Fuck, I dunno), so my life can’t be that horrible.

I don’t even know how I feel, because I’m so scared of being judged for it. I’m starting to think that almost everyone I know seems to think that I’m a naturally cheerful person, which is honestly my fault. I grew up believing that I have to be happy and cheerful around others, otherwise I’m being selfish and attention-seeking. I know how flawed that rationale is, but that’s the reality of how I get treated, so most of the time it’s easier to be all – OH THAT’S SOOO ADORABLE or MAAAN YOU’RE HILARIOUS or YEAH THAT’S TOTALLY INTERESTING, YEAH SURE or NO, NO, IT’S BECAUSE I’M A BIT SLOW, HAHAHAHAHAHAH UM YEP. If I voice any kind of concern or complaint or question the status quo, the prevailing message I get back is something to the effect of: ILENE YOU ARE COMPLAINING WHICH IS OF COURSE VERY ANNOYING AND YOU NEED TO BE ALONE UNTIL YOU CAN FORCE A SMILE BACK ON SO SEE YOU THEN AND ONLY THEN YOU DRAMA QUEEN SERIOUSLY SHUT UP IT’S MAKING ME FEEL ALL WEIRD AND I DON’T WANNA FEEL ALL WEIRD WHY CAN’T YOU JUST BE NORMAL.

OK, I guess that neutralises the problem I’ve been imagining. Good job. And many thanks.

I better fucking feel fucking better by tomorrow or I’m fucked. Lucky I’m imagining everything that’s negative in my life, huh?

I’d better stop, at least for now, so this can pass. Like usual. Come on… Please…

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A derisive glance clad in pinstripes
Lets me know that he knows my type
And it will earn a look from me that will make him walk faster.
Oh, perfectly tailored master of the conference.
How he scampers from an errant gaze of despondence.

Our eye contact reveals the Great Divide.
A void for which he hasn’t got the time.

But he has got the ability
To sniff out my futility
And cast it the look of contempt he feels it deserves.
And now he knows beyond a possibility
That it has hit a nerve.

Uppity fucking cunt.
He may be dressed sharply, but his honesty is blunt.
And so is mine.
It’s just… harder to define.

All I have is a blank stare he’s scared of.
A look of honest misery he wasn’t prepared for.

As he boards his SUV that’s never been off the road,
I take a breath.
If that man is living what’s called life,
I choose death.

Formes Frustes – Perfectly Tailored (2014)

I now like to match someone’s volume if they’re gonna yell into the phone.
I LOVE YOU MUM BUT WOAH WHAT OH GOD OH MY HEAD OUCH DAMN IT. It’s like auto-speakerphone or something. Or an air-raid siren that magically produces words.

Is this payback for all the times I screamed in the supermarket (and let’s face it, most other public places) as a kid? If I put it that way, then I guess I’ve no right to complain. I was a seriously embarrassing child.

At least now I know she and Pa had a safe flight. And so does the entire house, probably.