My dearest friend,

You are no longer alone. I’m here with you. Shh, it’s okay. I know how much it hurts. After all, you are a part of me. I know all your secrets; all your fears, dreams and aspirations. I was watching the whole time.

Come, take my hand. We’ll figure this out together. I’ll never abandon you. That is a promise you know I’m unable to break. so please,

Let me in.
-Yours truly

Having been spending the past few weeks in resumed psychiatric treatment for my various life struggles, I’ve been using the wealth of free time at my disposal to, in part, write. I decided to share some of my more emotionally motivated notes, ranging from random rambling to wishful thinking, in the hopes that they might reach and resonate with somebody out there.

Addiction doesn’t ask, it lets itself in. Doesn’t announce itself, but sneaks up on you. Doesn’t threaten or startle, instead it extends a helping hand. A loving touch. It’s there for you when nobody else will be. Sinks its fangs gently into your willing flesh. Embraces you tighter and tighter until the last beat is strangled out of your dying heart. Turns your identity into a scar, as it kills you softly in your sleep. Leaves you an abortion of a human being, a husk of what you could have become. Teaches you to trust your loved ones less than your enemies. Smothers you in the crub like a delusional mother.

Addiction is that which, when you consume, it consumes you.

After being frustrated by not being able to succinctly define what “addiction” even means, I came up with this attempt at a resolution. I’m not sure I learned anything from it, though. (I’ve since come up with more objective criteria for myself. Perhaps more on that some other time.)

Flying and flocking. Come, join your wing with mine. Let’s escape, somewhere far from here. Far from all of… this. I don’t know how much more I can take. It hurts. It hurts to think. It hurts to remember. It hurts to imagine. It hurts to hope. It hurts to accept. In fact, I don’t think I can accept. Damn you and your wicked lies. I refuse to give in to your hypocrisy, even if it costs me my life to prove you wrong. I just wish I knew how much longer I have to wait. You’re out there, right? I can feel you. I hear you. I see you. I love you. I just wish I knew your name.

Gone. Wasted away. Withered sapling. Phoenix in the ashes. Where are you now? What have you become? Have you managed to forget me? I hope so, for your sake and mine.

Trying to capture the loneliness being felt by the ghosts of a time past.

What the hell am I doing with my life? What am I even trying to accomplish? Why am I chasing this rabbit hole? What am I hoping to find? I’m so afraid of making some grave mistake. Stigmatizing myself into oblivion. And based on what? Whim? Flight of fancy? Will I have changed my mind again, next year? What if it’s too late to go back?

But maybe that’s the whole point. Learning to hit rock bottom. Crushing my hopes and dreams under the iron boots of consequences. Why am I so scared of being taken seriously? I guess it’s because I don’t take myself seriously. Afraid of making a mistake, again. A part of me knows I’m better than this.

But maybe it’s a case of self-fulfilling diagnosis? The fact that I decide to let the part of me that wants to be a child again dictate the course of my therapeutic sessions is exactly what makes me deserve the diagnosis I’m prophecizing for myself. And hey, it’s not too late. The fact that I’m being taken seriously even when I’m not trying to, means I can stop hiding behind this self-image.

It’s safe being lonely, isn’t it? Nobody to disappoint. No emotions to fight. I think… I think I might prefer it this way. All I need now is enough money to buy me what my body needs.

Where are you now? I miss you. Isn’t it fascinating how we never truly forget people? They shape us. Mold our history. Teach us. Alter our expectations. Where have you all gone, now? What became of our time together? Does its shadow haunt you? Or does it fill you with the warm glow of nostalgia? Am I your nightmare? A monster you’re rid of? Or has your cognition distorted your memory of me into something beautiful, as mine has yours?

After my therapist both confirmed my suspicions and explained to me why, which both set me on renewed self-doubt as to whether or not she was only diagnosing me based on the image I constructed to her, but ultimately I realized she saw past the facade all along. From the get go, she didn’t let me manipulate her expectations the way all of my previous therapists did. A very necessary step on the path towards self-understanding.