The Corrupted
CADE
PATIENT JOURNAL
Eat fucking rocks.
You want my thoughts? I wouldn’t be this miserable if I had just listened to her.
GET ME OUT Of THIS FUCKING PRISON
Make her stop. Please, just make the screaming stop.
These meds are bullshit.
I’m broken. Wrong.
Wrong wrong wrong
Maybe she was right. Maybe I shouldn’t be here.
I don’t want to talk to Dad.
I don’t want to talk to ANYONE
I wasn’t trying to drown myself.
IT WAS HER.
You people don’t get it.
Andrea and Seba did.
I’m not suicidal. I’m not suicidal. I’m not suicidal.
I’m not suicidal. I’m not suicidal. I’m not suicidal.
I’m not suicidal. I’m not suicidal. I’m not suicidal.
I’m not suicidal. I’m not suicidal. I’m not suicidal.
I’m not suicidal. I’m not suicidal. I’m not suicidal.
I’m not suicidal. I’m not suicidal. I’m not suicidal.
I’m not suicidal. I’m not suicidal. I’m not suicidal.
I’m not suicidal. I’m not suicidal. I’m not suicidal.
I’m not suicidal. I’m not suicidal. I’m not suicidal.
I’m not suicidal. I’m not suicidal. I’m not suicidal.
How do I know I haven’t already died?
Fine. I’ll play the game. (Only because I’m bored.) The best way to describe it is I’m split in pieces.
There are shards of me, clashing over and over, trying to fit together again.
And they get close. Sometimes they even line up but they don’t stick.
It hurts– being broken like this. It’s exhausting. And I’m just so fucking tired.
Feedback on the new meds:
-Some trippy ass dreams
-Not hungry
-Her voice is quieter
-My dick won’t get hard and it’s pissing me off
I’d love to come. That’d be great.
And I need more blue paint. No, I’m not gonna eat it.
Yo can I have my phone back?
It comes in waves– the mania and depression. Not set timeframes. Sometimes episodes last for days and other episodes go on for months.
Pattern recognition. Predicting emotions and outcomes is a trauma response caused by my mother’s emotional instability, not a secret sixth sense? That’s so lame.
DID. Dissociative Identity Disorder- developed as a result of significant childhood abuse and trauma. There’s a treatment. Specific therapies. You say, I can get it under control and return to them? Alright. Let's give it a whirl.
Fuck EMDR. Fuck. FUCK.
Exposure therapy can suck my nuts. I’m never gonna like water. Do you fucking blame me? She tried to drown me four times that night. Four. Fucking. Times.
You said it’d get easier! YOU’RE ALL FULL OF SHIT.
She followed me out of the hypnosis. She’s grinding my nerves down with sandpaper. She loved sandpaper. Fucking loved rubbing that shit on my wrists before chaining me up like a bad dog. Now she’s using it on the inside of my skull.
WHAT PART OF “I DON’T WANT TO REMEMBER” DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND?
I’d like to be sedated now.
I miss sex. A lot.
I’m gonna be 50 by the time we unpack all my baggage so for the love of fuck, can someone GET ME A FUCKING CIGARETTE?
I’m in time out again. Apparently, it’s unacceptable to break into the nurse’s station to steal cigarettes and a few benzos. My bad. Also, the medical restraint was unnecessary.
Once upon a time, in a faraway land, there was a boy who watched an invisible monster named Schizophrenia devour his mother’s sanity and hijack her body.
It gorged on her endless optimism until it soured into paranoia.
Warped her artistic talent into sadistic violence.
Mutilated her love until it became suspicious hatred.
And when that monster discovered religion, any shred of her left was consumed.
This healing shit isn’t linear and it’s really fucking rude.
The first time I saw Sebastian, I thought it’d be fun to corrupt him. I thought, “How hilarious would it be to make this straight, religious football douche fall for me?” Joke's on me, though, because my dumbass fell so much harder.
Does she think of me still? My church girl? I hope she does. I still taste her on my tongue.
Talking to Dad was a mistake.
Too much time has passed. There’s no way Andrea and Sebastian still want me. Did they even want me to begin with? Maybe they’re dating now. They always did look perfect together. I hope they’re happy.
I hope they miss me.
I sure as shit miss them.
Who am I kidding?
No one wants me.
No one misses me.
No one loves me.
I got my GED in a psych ward. #thriving
It’s been six months without hearing Mom’s voice in my head. Is it wrong to miss her?
I cried today. Shit is exhausting.
Dad came to visit. We talked about Mom. It wasn’t bad.
It’s been years here and I still refuse to decorate my room like the other long-termies. I’m getting out of here. They’ll see.
I think I wanna try yellow paint.
I painted the three of us. How we were that night. Before Mom ruined it all. It was the best and worst night of my life.
Holy shit. I did it. I really fucking did it. I graduated inpatient.
Now what?