THE MIND F***ER

I sit there. My hands are shaking and my brain is in so many sections....

like a shattered mirror whose pieces never fit quite right anymore...

I never wanted to go into the A&E but he and she said I should else something bad occurs.

I go... bitter and twisted about the experience, but I go.

I sit waiting in the reception. I'm scared and I'm worried about those people who surround me.

Drunk smell waves through the halls of the Royal Free. Apparently Normal for that time of night.

I get called in and the check up begins before i'm placed in a holding area. They say it's for my protection

but I think they're doing it because us crazy people shouldn't be around you normals.

I'm walked through to the room where the crisis team sit, not giving a shit. They're getting paid no matter the result of their mind fuckery.

I tell my story. That of having a mental illness so deep that it's distorts the perceptions of reality, the brutality of BPD inside of me hurts like a knife digging into my mind.

I catch, out the corner of my mind the mind fucker giggling and grinning. Making me more scared.

This is the man who is supposed to help me and here he is belittling me and making me feel so so low

I wanna blow, leave, go. Whatever the young people say these days.

I go home and I cry. I may not show it on the outside but my brain is flooding with tears so much that the driest deserts would soon become oceans.

Even now, right now in front of you, I'm not well.

I'm scared. I'm nervous.

I'm breaking down..... my story of how my brain hates me, berates me. But fates me to a life of

CBT, therapy and Medi.....cation.

Hesitation as I downed the Citalopram, brain goes BLAM!..... I sleep.

The next day, I look in the mirror and I see my reflection laughing at my attempt to help myself

“Oh... you really think it's that easy to get rid of me?”

I realise it's my BPD talking to me...

 

oh well... till we do battle again my friend...