The Neverending Story
My presence weighs heavy upon this house. There is only anger and weariness in my parents' voices when they speak to me now. My episodes are constant fuel for their reactionary behavior. If I choose to stay in at night and sleep, I can see them visibly crumble. They only want me around when I am happy go-lucky Stef, not the person I am now. They have no more left to give.
Today they are full of malice and bitterness, they are angered by my pain. My father called my former counsellor behind my back to talk about 'options'. I saw my GP today and she basically closed the door in my face, telling me that she cannot refer me to a new psychiatrist, as I've already got such a gosh-darned good one.
Last night, I dreamed about Jonathan Brandis, that once-child actor from the Neverending Story II. As a young girl, I fancied him. I was surprised when he showed up in my dream, clear-eyed and with a broad grin.
I had just fled a school shooting where I was wounded through the right hand, in the exact same place as my self-inflicted cigarette burn. I entered a mall and saw him, coming up the escalator. He was golden and shining and every bit as lovely as I remembered.
I approached him, gushing, and introduced myself. He took my hand and squeezed it so hard that the bullet wound wept puss. There was something urgent about his handshake. Today I googled him and found out that he hung himself in 2003.
I am fleeing this place tonight. My presence hurts and brings down everyone around me. I am running away, just like a little child, running over to a friend's house to hide. I don't want to be the burden that I have become. As my teenage boyfriend Robin would have said to me, "You're a sinking ship. And even rats won't stay on a sinking ship."
Today they are full of malice and bitterness, they are angered by my pain. My father called my former counsellor behind my back to talk about 'options'. I saw my GP today and she basically closed the door in my face, telling me that she cannot refer me to a new psychiatrist, as I've already got such a gosh-darned good one.
Last night, I dreamed about Jonathan Brandis, that once-child actor from the Neverending Story II. As a young girl, I fancied him. I was surprised when he showed up in my dream, clear-eyed and with a broad grin.
I had just fled a school shooting where I was wounded through the right hand, in the exact same place as my self-inflicted cigarette burn. I entered a mall and saw him, coming up the escalator. He was golden and shining and every bit as lovely as I remembered.
I approached him, gushing, and introduced myself. He took my hand and squeezed it so hard that the bullet wound wept puss. There was something urgent about his handshake. Today I googled him and found out that he hung himself in 2003.
I am fleeing this place tonight. My presence hurts and brings down everyone around me. I am running away, just like a little child, running over to a friend's house to hide. I don't want to be the burden that I have become. As my teenage boyfriend Robin would have said to me, "You're a sinking ship. And even rats won't stay on a sinking ship."