↓ {008} 'the confession'
It'd be a lie if I told you I don't know when it started. The pain, I mean, the overbearing static that has always been fuzzing in the background. It's been there since before I was born. I guess, even in my mother's womb I was in tune to my parents wavering signal. At first you don't notice it, you think everyone hears the same sticky static. Yet no one does. No one is kept up by haunting murmurs that sound like whispers from far away.
It's when you realize almost no one else lives life with the faint scratch of nails on a chalkboard that it becomes unbearable - loud. The soft, morbid dulcet tones turn into attention demanding screams that blur out the origin of the scream, rendering me unable to distinguish if it's my parents hollering they're throats out, or just electric shocks in my brain.
Honestly, shouldn't have I been comforted to find out my parents have the same ugly rabid beast hanging over their shoulders too? That the feeling of utter isolation and loneliness disappears into a black world of joint depression? Knowing I'm like parents however, it no comfort at all. Actually, lining three stereos together doesn't silence the nose, it gives it power.
It's the same as when I joined the institute. The more psychos I met, the louder the noise got. In the end it was an army of screaming buzzes, one unintelligible signal mixed with another to create a cacophony of blurred pain.
The institute is what we're forced to call it. Loony bin is what father said, attempting to make a little noise, give me my daily dose of 'oh ouch, that hurt'. I call it the mental death hospital, others call it home... a savior... Whatever you choose to name it, it's all the same. It's out to tweak with your mind, fix the signal so instead of being stuck in a sea of shivering waves we are all in tune to the top 40 hits - the same bullshit societies monkeys bop their identical little heads to.
I call it the mental death hospital because as soon as you get here, that's what happens. What else do you expect? Mixing dozens of twisted children of the modern world, black and tainted, all inside tall white silent walls. Forcing the disturbed to socialize with the morbid. The paranoid with the misunderstood normal. All in all, to them it's just the same kind of crazy.
After a while, you'd start thinking about doing what I did. Everyone does. Drugs and sessions waste away your brain like being awake on the operation table, watching someone burn off a tumor in your skull. This is supposed to be a walk in the beach, your mind's private get away - peaceful, relaxes with cooked meals, a place to stay and someone to listen and resolve all your problems for you. A hotel to make you normal, you come in twisted but individual and come out blank but normal. Tada, welcome to society? Wrong. In reality, that walk turns you frozen, like a worn down rock on that beautiful little beach. Unmovable and abnormal. The wind wears you down, year after year, the waves that sooth take bits and pieces of who you are with them. Psychiatrist whispers that slim you of your problems, yet in return make you tiny and mindless; normal, but not yourself. A shadow, the empty petite shell of who you were before. But, normal.
This is obviously no way to live. It doesn't help how each conversation in the place just cranks up the volume. At St Maries mental murder rooms, the tiny doctor lays you down on the cold sofa, spongy with other peoples tears and stories. silence. Even the voices shut up infront of the frantically scribbling pen. A calm before a storm. I hate the silence. There's so much of it forced down our throats. In normality, is silence that normal?
Each session brings with it a sharpening clarity. The fumbling doctor gropes me in the dark, tweaking me and flattening me, trying to pure me of my static and switch me on to elevator tunes and the mindless numbness of society. Instead, all he accomplishes is to make the horror beneath the sheets of waves rear it's head. Each hissing voice is identified, crackles sharpening into crisp clarity. Screamers learned how to talk after the first few months of sessions - able to lace the most horrible of sentences together. I now could listen to them all eat at my memories only to then vomit them back in my face - acid, hot and burning. After a year I was institutionalized, dependent on drugs and therapy. A psycho for life. Their strife for me to reach normality ended up being the spear that nailed me to the cross. Imprisoned for being related to my parents, for not being the way I'm supposed to be. Anyone would want a way out.
I wanted a way out at least. I couldn't change my signal, the dial broken useless and screams isn't something I can dance to. I couldn't enjoy my static the way people turn theirs into something pleasant, nostalgic like a needle on the a record. I found my own freedom, my own silence, my escape from normality with my own little needle, my own little scream.
That's why I did it. But.. that's just me.
the confession - piece written about mental institutions, depression and self harm/suicide. it's just one big run on metaphor and not very specific nor detailed. mostly just artsy and morbid.
It's when you realize almost no one else lives life with the faint scratch of nails on a chalkboard that it becomes unbearable - loud. The soft, morbid dulcet tones turn into attention demanding screams that blur out the origin of the scream, rendering me unable to distinguish if it's my parents hollering they're throats out, or just electric shocks in my brain.
Honestly, shouldn't have I been comforted to find out my parents have the same ugly rabid beast hanging over their shoulders too? That the feeling of utter isolation and loneliness disappears into a black world of joint depression? Knowing I'm like parents however, it no comfort at all. Actually, lining three stereos together doesn't silence the nose, it gives it power.
It's the same as when I joined the institute. The more psychos I met, the louder the noise got. In the end it was an army of screaming buzzes, one unintelligible signal mixed with another to create a cacophony of blurred pain.
The institute is what we're forced to call it. Loony bin is what father said, attempting to make a little noise, give me my daily dose of 'oh ouch, that hurt'. I call it the mental death hospital, others call it home... a savior... Whatever you choose to name it, it's all the same. It's out to tweak with your mind, fix the signal so instead of being stuck in a sea of shivering waves we are all in tune to the top 40 hits - the same bullshit societies monkeys bop their identical little heads to.
I call it the mental death hospital because as soon as you get here, that's what happens. What else do you expect? Mixing dozens of twisted children of the modern world, black and tainted, all inside tall white silent walls. Forcing the disturbed to socialize with the morbid. The paranoid with the misunderstood normal. All in all, to them it's just the same kind of crazy.
After a while, you'd start thinking about doing what I did. Everyone does. Drugs and sessions waste away your brain like being awake on the operation table, watching someone burn off a tumor in your skull. This is supposed to be a walk in the beach, your mind's private get away - peaceful, relaxes with cooked meals, a place to stay and someone to listen and resolve all your problems for you. A hotel to make you normal, you come in twisted but individual and come out blank but normal. Tada, welcome to society? Wrong. In reality, that walk turns you frozen, like a worn down rock on that beautiful little beach. Unmovable and abnormal. The wind wears you down, year after year, the waves that sooth take bits and pieces of who you are with them. Psychiatrist whispers that slim you of your problems, yet in return make you tiny and mindless; normal, but not yourself. A shadow, the empty petite shell of who you were before. But, normal.
This is obviously no way to live. It doesn't help how each conversation in the place just cranks up the volume. At St Maries mental murder rooms, the tiny doctor lays you down on the cold sofa, spongy with other peoples tears and stories. silence. Even the voices shut up infront of the frantically scribbling pen. A calm before a storm. I hate the silence. There's so much of it forced down our throats. In normality, is silence that normal?
Each session brings with it a sharpening clarity. The fumbling doctor gropes me in the dark, tweaking me and flattening me, trying to pure me of my static and switch me on to elevator tunes and the mindless numbness of society. Instead, all he accomplishes is to make the horror beneath the sheets of waves rear it's head. Each hissing voice is identified, crackles sharpening into crisp clarity. Screamers learned how to talk after the first few months of sessions - able to lace the most horrible of sentences together. I now could listen to them all eat at my memories only to then vomit them back in my face - acid, hot and burning. After a year I was institutionalized, dependent on drugs and therapy. A psycho for life. Their strife for me to reach normality ended up being the spear that nailed me to the cross. Imprisoned for being related to my parents, for not being the way I'm supposed to be. Anyone would want a way out.
I wanted a way out at least. I couldn't change my signal, the dial broken useless and screams isn't something I can dance to. I couldn't enjoy my static the way people turn theirs into something pleasant, nostalgic like a needle on the a record. I found my own freedom, my own silence, my escape from normality with my own little needle, my own little scream.
That's why I did it. But.. that's just me.
the confession - piece written about mental institutions, depression and self harm/suicide. it's just one big run on metaphor and not very specific nor detailed. mostly just artsy and morbid.