I have a bully. And they’re really f#%kin mean.
My bully wants me dead.
My bully is called me.
I vaguely remember feeling alive. Like things were actually happening. Things mattered, I thought things through, but then one day somewhere my mind woke up. “Oh f@$k I can think”. It was all downhill from there. I deteriorated slowly at first. Little realizations. “This doesn’t feel right.” “I was only 8”. Minutes and hours with my mind consumed by the things that went wrong before. Dwelling on the trauma that I didn’t understand until the beginning of The Collapse. The doctor says I need pills. We’ll try Dexmethylphenidate, we’ll try adderall. Whatever it takes to get this miserable kid to focus. But the medicine doesn’t control what I focus on. I become fascinated by the smallest distractions. My attention enamored by a twinge under my skin when I move my thumb at a 12° angle. The slightest negative thought sends me spiraling. Staring at the wall. “I hate you. I hate you. Die. Useless. Worthless. Garbage.” Morphing into “you should have stopped him you useles f¿»k. You just watched.” Blades running across my skin. 5 the first time. 15 the next. A downward spiral steadily following along the pages of The Collapse. Escape. I need escape. Run away to Germany for a year at 16. Forced to come back. School is «So Important». “My cousin abused me.” “The neighbor raped Em and I”. Words I finally can speak. But the words are stamped down and tossed into the waste basket by those who are supposed to love me no matter what. My livelihood morphs into a gray. A mistiness befalls my once so adventurous eyes. Everything is silver and nothing matters. Get a job. Quit it three weeks later. Cry all the time? Whatever. Nothing has a purpose. Certainly not me. Even if I did what does it matter if I have no reason for myself to get up in the morning. Run away again the second I turned 18. The Collapse is a cliff. I know it’s started but I’m on a downhill slope towards the waterfall. The inevitable. 3 attempts. Can’t even kill my bully right. “Let’s get you a therapist.” Oh no you forget to find me one for the 13th time. I’m so surprised. What can a therapist do anyway. Turn back time? How funny. Do you know how hard it is to find a job where you’re respected despite the fact you were born in the wrong body? It’s near impossible. Why was I born? To even out any happiness that may have been let loose into the world. My miserable being is to fulfill a suicide statistic. Maybe not today. Maybe tomorrow? I’ll find a good day. Things are muddled. My pages glued together. A great Shakespearean tragedy so thick it’s not even worth writing out anymore. All that I love is far. I am friendless. Disgusting in the eyes of the world. An abomination. Poetic. Whatever. Gone.