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One-Shot Better

Flora

local hellion
Pronoun
they/he/ey
So I'm pretty sure I quadrupled the word total for my entire camp nano project from a dumb venty writing exercise I finished at 12:15 am HAWAII STANDARD TIME after my parents almost caught me writing it on my shitty old iPhone, on a vacation that is a wellspring of shit I'm gonna have to seriously talk to my therapist about once I get one, probably after I figure out who my new doctor is because of course my life goes into major upheaval just after my doctor moves to Kona.

It's a fucking disaster, I'll proofread when I'm not dead tired, I'm just rambly and need words for what's going on right now and also to work on my first person writing and to work on writing about dark stuff (MY WORLD OUTLOOK INVOLVES A LOT OF TRIGGERY STUFF RIGHT NOW APPARENTLY PLEASE BE CAREFUL SORRY FOR SCREAMY BOLD), so naturally it comes out in a stream of consciousness. Sorry. You're probs better off reading this after I edit like six plus hours from posting.

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"Oh stop being so DRAMATIC."

It still takes me a few seconds before I release my hands from where they're clenched around my throat, rasping out a few more breaths more from reflex than an actual desire to keep living, waiting a few seconds after for the tingling to dissipate from my head.

You know. For dramatics.

I'm an actor, that's how we do.

The rest of the fight goes by in a blur, my voice completely shot (drama. Or yelling.), my dad telling me how it was better than usual.

Most fights don't usually feature near strangulation pretty early on, but you know. Better. Less screaming (hurts to yell). Definitely better. I broke down screaming a madness mantra that had been echoing in my healthy but dramatic brain (I'm not a person, I'm a problem.) but you know. Better.

The next day I get back from work and check my face in the mirror. One large neck bruise and some rashy-looking-but-not-feeling busted capillaries.

My commitment to my attention-seeking is most impressive.

I learned pretty early on that pretty much any way I felt was an issue. I mean, we (I) went to counseling to learn to cope with my emotions, and later on we (my family) went to learn how to cope with me. Perpetual problem child.

I don't fit all the signs of Aspergers, so my parents and my (former? Then-current? I don't know when this occurred) therapist agreed that I don't have it. Not me though. I have no idea what all the signs even are. I wasn't privy to this conversation. I didn't know it happened until years after I last saw my therapist, anywhere from days to years after the meeting. She's their marriage counselor, after all. Probably why my mom insists I should go back to her.

She made me better. The meltdowns are better, instead of one a week I have one a month that involves suicidal tendencies, I mean attention-seeking. My emotions are better, I just bottle everything up till it overflows, till my very core is sick.

I don't fit all the signs of any mental illness, so clearly I don't have any. Drama queen. Perfectly healthy. Never mind that I see so much of myself in my boyfriend's mental cocktail, no way of figuring out what comes from where or what's just a him (us?) thing. Never mind that there've been a bundle of people who've seen their own problems in me just from hearing me TALK about them. Nope, I'm healthy, just irrational and always angry and just an overall downer.

It's not that I don't want to be diagnosed. It's that after years of being told that I'm not trying hard enough, that I could be okay if I just listened to whatever pieces of advice my mom wanted me to take from my former therapist. (Coping strategies were right out; every argument had to be finished on the spot, no retreat, no time for deep breaths and counting to ten. I just wanted to escape, my mom says, and I'm so transparent. I think I'm so complex but I'm so so simple.)

Anger incarnate. Somehow able to bewitch people into liking me, until the bubble breaks and I have a meltdown and everyone realizes that I'm just pretending to have real emotions, I'm secretly just the world's greatest actor. Able to fake happiness and sadness and fear.

Able to trick herself into believing she's capable of feeling anything other than all-encompassing rage.

Talk about method acting.

The mask is starting to break though. There's been cracks here and there, the sudden terror (if one can call it that, it's likely faked after all) that my friends don't care, that they're still here out of pity, or they're scared I'll retaliate if they leave. But it's disappearing for good, and it won't be long until everyone leaves.

Who wants anger incarnate, anyway? Who would willingly keep around an immature, overly emotional disaster with mommy issues that'll likely never be resolved because her mom doesn't want to even start?

I can't make myself disappear; I'm too weak-willed for that. Every attempt, every smash of my head against an isolated wall, every single attempted asphyxiation behind a closed door is just for attention, after all. No one tells anyone when they REALLY want to kill themselves. Attention-seeking. The most I can really do is pray - pray that something finally strikes me down, that is.

Until the universe finally takes pity on me, though, all I can really do is be the second greatest actor in the world, and pretend that I can only be happy. Cut off my angry, my sad, my lonely, my loud, my passion....just be neutral happy. Nothing is allowed to bother me anymore. It's better this way anyway.

I guess I'm better now.
 
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