mentalhealth

Journal Entry 1093 – 2012.02

My brain doesn’t click or crackle; it simply stays still. It’s dry.
They’re quiet though; they: the thoughts… How do I know the difference? How can I tell?

*

“They’ve been here.” I start off. “I mean this is sad, don’t you think?” I mope in qualm. I tug at the violet, velvety abused fabric of the sofa.

My therapist watches me in his usual self from his desk.

“I want to give up. They’re a constant bother… All these things they bark. Is it truly worth it? I can’t focus. They beat me down.”

“What’s happening?” His usual calm.

It makes me sick. His tone makes me sick. My uncertainty makes me sick. My head makes me sick.

“I don’t know what to do. I mean. I would sit still but the inside of me is boiling. My heart feels like it’s pumping fast and I cannot recognize my thoughts… or whispers… or…”

“What thoughts?”

“I should end…”

“End what?”

“Is that the conclusion?” My head explodes with shrieks and burst of light simmers over my sight. “Shit.” I curse and tap my forehead gently with my fingers. “The thought is soothing.” I faintly grin. Maybe it’s my last attempt at my default.

“Jacob?”

“They’re so loud sometimes. They’re screaming. Look what I thought.” I raise my eyes. “I mean, no one is ridiculous or deformed.”

“Deformed how?”

“In their mind. That’s not the point I’m trying to make.” I knock on my forehead again. “My stupid accusation of what, that Shane is a fucking intruder, that he reads my mind.” I jolt out a laugh. “That I’m pathetic.” Pathetic echoes in my mind.

I can do it. I think to myself. I can do it. No one would know. No one knows. I drum my forehead over. What’s the point of all of this… of my therapist’s interrogation?

“They’re at your fucking mercy.”

“Jacob?” his voice softens. I get agitated. “No swearing. You’re upset.”

No shit.

I am swimming. How do I know the difference? “What if something was determined for you?”

“How? By whom?”

“Inside of you… and you fought against it, but it just kept on propelling at its mission.” I almost state my defeat.

“By whom?”

I take a moment to consider the answer and quack, “by yourself.” My knees shatter. “I think.” My stomach turns because I’m unsure.

“What is your mind telling you to do?”

I sit mute. My thoughts deflowering.

“Why do you want to end it all?”

That is the question, isn’t it? Why? Fucking why? I know it’s not right. I know it’s something unacceptable… to kill yourself. Everybody tells you so; but, here am I sitting, confronting my therapist, and trying to convince myself so.

My mind is trapped, filled with suicide thoughts; but, I didn’t act on it as I’m sitting in my therapist’s office trying to convince myself otherwise.

One part of my brain tells me one thing. The other argues the opposite and it’s ripping me inside. Usually I would just collapse. I would give in to it. Today however, it’s war. Why do I want to end it all because part of my brain is telling me to? Is that good enough of a reason?

They come and go; my thoughts, the wrong thoughts and I breathlessly gulp, “Because I can’t shut them off.” As simple as that, yet so complicated to disprove.

*

One prescription. Two prescriptions, and I swallow the pills. It’s simple as that. Not really but it’s a precaution. My therapist doesn’t joke in prescribing medication; but this is my regular dose. I take it every night but for some reason today I hate myself and it’s difficult to swallow them. Maybe it’s not them but the thoughts, the curses, the whispers. And what have they done than to convince me to end it all.

I rarely look at my own reflection in the mirror and today I do not look. It might be difficult to recognize.

*

Journal Entry 1093.5 – 2012.02

Two hundred and thirty-seven. I count everything. Two hundred and thirty-seven lost minutes, strange days, pills, whispers, doubts, arguments, hurtful thoughts…

© Jacob Greb — 2012

appeared in Magnolia Review

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