it’s a bad mental health day. my brain is unhappy. here’s something I’ve written. I can’t even be bothered with captions or capitalisations.
my mental illness feels like claws.
sinking themselves into my brain, and leaving lesions.
PTSD wraps itself like tentacles around my brain, snaking its way into the deepest recesses of my memories
I’m forced to relive all the traumas and I remember every single harsh word, every single bruise, every single thing.
I ask my therapist if I can get better.
he says, ‘managed, not better’ like my mental illness is an unruly child in need of discipline instead of being some kind of atrocity that leads me to wonder what happens if I hang myself.
I have everything I need. hosing, a ceiling fan/steel girders in abandoned lots where no one will find my body. sounds like a plan. still feels like an option.
it shouldn’t be.
get the claws OUT