Depression brian’s a bitch.

Just me and my mental illnesses.

I have, to have something… anything, it has to be playing. In the background, but not in the background. It becomes the ground beneath my battered being; stabilizing the ebb and flow of too much.

Depression Brain.

Mental illnesses can be too much for any one person to survive alone.

Depression brain, that bitch!

Breathing within that space is detrimental.

The tv is on, my attention… is gone

without apprehension, too exhausted to fight the relief. Isn’t that what I wanted?

Those voices need to be silenced and are muted by entertainment.

I can’t spend time with them.

They claw at the walls of my skull, desperately seeking a way to take me down.

Knees down,

knees splintered on warn floorboards.

An act of submission, a depression bitch sacrifice.

Flailing, launching pain into my spine, my body, my mind

Shackled to unstable airhorns, the longer the louder it grows.

I have to silence that noise.

That buzzing tinnitus.

It’s a warning,

there isn’t enough room.

We will suffocate stupidly,


Blood finds a way, I can feel it pool at the roots adding volume to my corkscrew curls. Matted dried. drained

Tangled. Nappy.

It’s twisting my voice into this raging bitch. She is everything that I’ve learned to fear.

But there it stays. High pitch ringing piped through that mic squeaking, screeching.

She’s loud enough to stay with me for hours, days never lessening, only numbing.

Forever after, together.

Desensitizing each healthy nerve ending.

Submitting to hostile invaders.

Depression Brain.

That bitch has minions.

Intruders that hold parts of my being, bits are hidden away slithering into the trash.

Or is it all trash? Dumps are man-made.

Here I am with knitted nerves to this unescapable faulty wiring, that fucking bitch.

Do I want to cry? Do I want to be displaced by the anger of adversity?

The rage of distress, without the distraction life, is unbearable.

One of us will die without the relief of leaving the other. That part of my brain that’s not neurotypical. I wouldn’t just leave me.

There has to be a break, there has to be a reprieve from these attacks born within.

Unregulated and unmedicated is no way to live and no one should have too.

This unholy union of mental illnesses and life do not co-exist.

It’s a fight to the death. It’s more than feeling sad. poor baby.

It’s a life with pleasure centers intensified by death.

It’s a life fucked by the intensity of debilitates consequences of having multiple mental illnesses.

They all conspire to ruin me.

So, I drowned out the battle.

Dramas worse off than my own are an escape. A sick way of coping with trauma.

Find someone who is suffering more, their pain could be yours and that’s something worth it. A moment of silenced PTSD. Replacing pain with a pain.

This plan will fail.

The only way forward is into the peaks and valleys. To stay on this numb ringing plane is unnatural and unsafe. Forward, I go.

Grounded with whatever stake I could find.

All moments end in the same way, they change and so will I.

Adapt, reduce, reuse healthy coping skills, recycle. I’ll recycle my spot inline.

She may be there but that’s the least of her problem. She’s the one that’s sick after all.

Just me and my mental illnesses.

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