Un-Happy (characters are my own)

12.02

Fuck life, marry my bed.

Kill the voices in my head.

I’m not crazy. No one understands anything I say when I truly express myself, they all just look at me like I should be in an institution. 

“No, no one else has those thoughts.”

I’m not crazy. 

12.16

The world is tilting closer to Christmas. Presents under the tree. All those happy things that bring a putrid taste to my mouth. What is happiness, but just a myth, a fantastical creature that was long ago removed from me.

I couldn’t care less about Christmas, or any holiday, really. The world never gave me much in return for my honesty, my emotions like a live fucking wire and so tender to the touch, like a swollen, infected wound. The whole fucking world gave me an infection and I died a premature death from those emotions. 

1.08

I’m not too good at this journal. My mind gets nastier and meaner by the day. I thought hospitalizing myself for my brain would make it better, but somehow, it seems to have gotten worse. 

Maybe hope truly is lost.

2.08

I’ve made it to February. A miracle, really. I should’ve died a long time ago. It’s a surprise - but not a pleasant one.

The doctors saw how I was treated, and they did nothing. My whole life, I’ve been called a faggot and beaten until I was bruised. No one has stood up for me. Might as well stand up for my fucking self. 

I develop a mask of a man who isn’t me, but he doesn’t make me very happy.

More unhappy. 

2.16

Still unhappy. But less beaten up, thankfully. It only took a mental breakdown and a hallucinatory episode of the asshat (with a nice ass, I will say), who was picking at me to open these fucking doctors’ eyes.

Some doctors you are, letting me get bruised. You’re a brain doctor, yet you’re only letting my brain get worse.

Why is that?

2.20

I tried on a new dress today. I’m in a quieter, much lonelier section, which I adore. My hair has grown out as long as it will go, without extensions. Barely reaches my clavicles. 

I wish I had breasts.

2.24

I’m mostly alright with being a man today - or as I prefer to see myself, a boy. Maybe a young man. I don’t feel complete, I don’t feel whole, or fully capable of existing on my own like other adults seem to. That may sound pathetic, and I agree that it does, but it’s got to do with the way I view the world. What I mean is, the lens through which I see the world is very sharp, too sharp sometimes. Other times not sharp enough. Strange, isn’t it? 

Yes. And my emotions feel very unsteady. A better way to describe it is, whatever emotion I’m feeling…there is an unsteady, extremely unpleasant feeling buried underneath, like a casket six feet underground containing a body that has a chest still rising and falling.

I’ve noticed it though, that unsteadiness. I feel as though the floor has dropped out from under me, in a very subtle but eerie way. Nothing is secure. No connection with other people is solid. I know around when it first started. I just assumed it was a part of depression, but now I’m not sure. 

I might be losing my mind.