A strange line between being ok and knowing something is wrong.

I’m getting head stabbed tomorrow. Industrial and a septum. Some family members hate the septum, probably hate my body mods all together and maybe that’s why they give me a cold shoulder. I’m happy to be getting more piercings. I miss my eyebrow bar though. I planned on getting three of those then the pandemic hit hard. I still have a free tattoo session I was planning on using to colour in my sleeve but no luck so far. Nothing set in stone. 

I’ve been eating between 1800kcal and 2000kcal. I’m proud of myself but there’s still a mass of anxiety in my chest that burns when I count or when I make my meal. I gotta say I do feel the energy, feel more awake now I’m eating properly but I’m missing the buzz. I’m surprised I’ve managed to get through the thoughts of paranoia. 

During Flash’s health decline I had a manic episode. Did you know you can become manic through other mental health problems and not just Bipolar? I didn’t know till last year. Sometimes my typing becomes wild that not even auto correct knows how to correct it and the buzz is strong that I feel like I don’t need to sleep. It lasted almost a week before it finally calmed down. I wonder if Flash kept the worst of it at bay? He hid all the darkness it seems. Since his passing the paranoia has been strong, I’ve been hearing and seeing more. 

Top it off I have less cares now. Every life decision I made had Flash on my mind. “I need to make sure he’s safe and has a home” in response to when my attempts to leave the closet were met with a negative. “I need to make it through this week because he won’t eat otherwise”, “I need to get up and go because he needs stimulation/food/walks” I needed to do things because in the end his life was on my mind. Now all I have is the resin in his bed that’s holding on to his ashes and the box that is holding on to his paw prints. The resin doesn’t need feeding, it doesn’t need bathing, it doesn’t need walks, it doesn’t need cuddles and it doesn’t need stimulation. It won’t chase the toys or scream at me for attention. 

I can remember more than I did before I started therapy. Large chunks of my life remain missing. I know faces but have no memory of why I know them. I pretend to know and understand to avoid hurting people because clearly we have a past but it’s one I don’t know. I remember bits of places I don’t remember travelling to. My Facebook account is filled with pictures I don’t remember taking. Sometimes I find things in my wardrobe I don’t like but apparently wore constantly sometime before being more awake. The person in those photos, people’s minds is a stranger. I don’t know what they liked, hated or their personality. Just that one day they existed then I woke up and they silently vanished seemingly forever. 

I had a dream last night about my ex, someone I used to refer to as my best friend. I hate it. I hate remembering bits of her, bits of our time together because then I think about the betrayal and the lies. I ended up blocking her and forcing myself to move on after the last time she went quiet. It sent me into a panic attack so severe I harmed myself to get the panic out somewhere. Every now and then someone mentions her and I feel rage bubble in my stomach. Not a day goes by where I don’t think about her at least briefly and I have no doubt she’ll be the last thought I will have when I pass. In my dream she got married; I attended the wedding, I supported her then I left and I got drunk then I jumped. I bolted up right the moment I began to fall because falling dreams, man, they send the worst jolt. She is the heroin. My heroin. 

I want to say I’m ok but I can only say physically I’m fine. Mentally I’m ok with snapping because at least I’ll be feeling something over just the numb feeling of existing. I don’t even know why I’m existing anymore. What are my reasonings besides looking at investigation files? I don’t know.