Sea Monsters

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: Booksie Classic
I am on medication for a mental illness that I have. I am constantly battling if I should take it or not. Here is a piece I wrote as therapy.

Submitted: November 07, 2014

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Submitted: November 07, 2014

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“Vivid” is not the right word to use to describe it.  It’s just “more.”  Everything is just more, and it sticks to my eyes.  The colors take over my mind and the objects move to the sounds I hear and it’s almost overwhelming.  It makes me dizzy but that’s only because I’m no longer used to it.  I’ve been off my meds for only a few days.  The high is only just kicking in, like the kick-start to a rusty engine in the middle of winter.  It warms you from the inside out, waiting for the cold crash of the large waves to bring you back down into the deep blue sea.  At least the exhibition through the corners of my mind is an adventure.

People ask me how I can think like this, but honestly, the dullness is more distracting.  It’s like shoveling up mud just to get a thought out.  Now, I’m crystal clear, like admiring my baggage through a glass box.  Everything is so fragile and on display.  I can touch it, feel it, break myself so easily to remember I’m human.  I can run down the halls screaming with sledge hammers, barefoot on hot tar, screaming like the sun is going to scorch my soul, swinging violently and not caring who gets hurt, then ripping off my clothing and using the shards of my broken dreams to decorate my skin… NO!

I keep it within.  To everyone my voice is a dull roar, but to me it’s a thousand screams telling me lies like… maybe life will turn out okay… maybe this will be the last coin flip and it will land on happy… maybe the waves are getting tired of constantly pulling me under… maybe I’ll make a friend, and actually believe it this time… maybe I’ll stop giving my soul away to the ones who crush it.  I would rather have it scorched by the sun.  We all know that hands can do more damage than fire.

The lithium makes my voice sound like it’s submerged in still water.  I’m easy to ignore.  I’ve stopped shoveling for thoughts and accepted I’m stupid.  People tell me that without my distracting disease, I can meet the real me for the first time.  I’m not sure if I even like who I am.  Everyone seems to forget about that risk; a few pills a day and I’m “fixed”.  Now they move on to the next “problem child.” Dullness is easy to ignore. 


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