My family and me are complicated, to say the least.
I spent childhood idolizing them.
Teenagedom questioning them.
College disconnecting from them.
And now I'm an adult and all I feel is that I miss them.

It took me awhile to realize that, but its far more complicated than just missing their presence. I miss the connections we had. I miss who we were together before the great big Jabberwocky of Wonderland waltzed into our lives. I miss the people they were when they were happier. I miss the person I was when I was happy with them.

I miss much more than this moment. I miss everything I've lost because of what's happened over the last few years.

I've spent a lot of time hoping to never be like them. Yet now I just want a way back to them. A healthy way.

It'll be hard. It might even hurt a little. But to be able to think I might have the parts of them that used to make me so happy?

I have to at least try.

There's always this poisonous barb in the back of my head luring me in and telling me that maybe I'm just dead. But not really dead, its not a dumb, parasitic barb. Just dead in my head and clearly exaggerating the good that lies in my stead. After all, what true good is someone who's not all right in the head?

It goes away and I wane, and I start to feel strong and sane. I feel maybe the things swirling around in my brain are not just caged beasts but like songs with refrains, like cells with membranes. Whole, complete, useful.

Yet as I get confident it yells at me to be confident I'm not confident. I confidently yell at it to shut the hell up and stride forward, but then the traits I'm confident in are told to be less confident, and others tell that its not good enough to be confident, and then I'm less confident. But I'd only be good if I was more confident, you see, there we go, the dilemma in the madness, the plum in my proverbial pudding. I think I'm too good yet not good enough all at once.

What the **** am I?

I'm my own strongest motivation yet my own personal hell. All the things I say sound brilliant yet ridiculous all at once and its just stuck swirling inside my head and its beautiful and disgusting. I'm a genius yet an idiot. Gifted yet totally talentless. I can't catch which way sometimes what it is. Am I too ******* myself or am I just fooling myself into thinking I'm something I'm not and no one has the heart to tell the fool she's not special?

Why would anyone ever make humans like this?

I do know one thing I was a fool about, though. The one thing that I like to forget that's in my head.

That when it comes to the disorder that plagues my synapses, I'm not that special. It has its good times and its bad. But I had been so good lately I...

I was confident that I would just stay better.

That's the one thing I'm confident I was wrong about, because today I did something that normally would make me weep for joy and I felt nothing. Feeling nothing about something I love so much hurts more than I can bear.

What the **** am I?

I was so confident a few months ago. And parts of my head are still confident now. But I don't know who to trust anymore when all I've heard is nothing and no. It makes me feel adrift in an open sea, and the worst part is I thought I knew the waters below me, but now I can't tell where I am at all.

I'm confident that right now that I'm lost.

The water slipped over my hands, through my hands, and I felt a chill run through my spine. Most chills left me with one or two shivers and  a cold disposition, but this one left me with a feeling as if the core of my soul had be realigned. My eyes closed. There was a unique serenity in how it remained moving, fluid, yet hard to the touch. Is this what its like to be apart of a river? Where your entire being is melded into an ever-changing ecosystem? Every droplet slipped through my fingers, yet I never found calamity in it. Only a sense of calm that is often forgone by my synapses. In the darkness behind my eyelids, one with a water wall, a chaotic mind was found at peace.

You know, the better I get overall the worse my relationship with sleep gets.

I keep on trying. I know its healthier. I know its good for me. But no matter how hard I try, its so easy to forget. So easy to just keep going.

I'm not good at stopping. I don't like to stop.

I'm like a telegram with run-on sentences. Sometimes, innovative and brilliant. other times, incomprehensible.

I'm on the precipice of so much excitement and joy that, per usual, sleep takes a back seat. I'm bad at not letting it take a back seat. Its just so good at taking the back seat.

To be honest, I'm better with sleep with him around. And its less because he's some magic cure-all, and more he makes me calmer and I can't stay on my phone haphazardly or turn on the lights and write with another person in the bed.

More to be honest, this has less of a point and more a myriad of ramblings in hope to get myself sleepy and able to fall asleep. Because despite my rebellious mindset, I do wish to sleep eventually.

I even tried waking up early yesterday. Didn't work.

I dunno what to do. I'm pretty bad at this. If my insides aren't screaming I tend to question it less. But, perhaps, as an adult, I should question it a little more.

Maybe sleep's just heading in my bedhead.

I've never heard more people in my life insist they are good at something more than driving. Nearly every person I know has insisted to me that they are a great driver. And when its an off day? "I swear, most days I'm great though". I'm never quite sure if its because no one is often there to judge them but themselves, or if its hard for them to accept they are only adequate at something they do day in and day out.

As someone who has only ever held a permit myself, I am fascinated by this phenomenon. Its as if its unthinkable to accept that you're only okay or average or even bad at something everyone does. I've found similar results with cooking. Anytime I tell someone I'm good at it, they burst in with their own stories of their good cooking, though I never was comparing them.

I don't understand the inability to accept inadequacies. They are a part of who they are. Mind you, I conversely also believe to accept greatnesses. But Doesn't it diminish those greatnesses if you don't fully accept your misfalls?

Myself, as an easy example. I can't legally drive. I love science but hate research and laboratory processes. I can't stop myself from questioning math long enough to understand it. I get really obsessive about making lists, and I have to do them before doing things, even if they end up wrong. I write novels inefficiently, because I prefer to write them out of order, which ultimately tends to lead to wasted scenes. I hate citrus. I'm near addicted to weird things. I'm fiercely independent and protective of it. I like to stay up late and get up early and struggle with enjoying sleep.

But I have greatnesses. I am a wonderful writer, particularly realistic fiction novels. I am great at technical writing, because I love science but understand rhetoric and audience-driven communication. I am super intelligent artistically, and have a level of creative innovation and drive that baffles even me sometimes. I am wonderful at questioning everything and giving good insight. I am adaptable. I like vegetables.

I feel like accepting these inadequacies makes me inadequate. I think they make me human. I would never try to tell someone I'm good at driving. I'm not. But i hope to be passable. I want to get better to the point of making me a better, functioning person, but good? C'mon. Inflating myself won't make me better. It'll just make me bloated.

Sometimes being inadequate is kinda okay, as long as you have your own personal greatness too.

I've never heard more people in my life insist they are good at something more than driving. Nearly every person I know has insisted to me that they are a great driver. And when its an off day? "I swear, most days I'm great though". I'm never quite sure if its because no one is often there to judge them but themselves, or if its hard for them to accept they are only adequate at something they do day in and day out.

As someone who has only ever held a permit myself, I am fascinated by this phenomenon. Its as if its unthinkable to accept that you're only okay or average or even bad at something everyone does. I've found similar results with cooking. Anytime I tell someone I'm good at it, they burst in with their own stories of their good cooking, though I never was comparing them.

I don't understand the inability to accept inadequacies. They are a part of who they are. Mind you, I conversely also believe to accept greatnesses. But Doesn't it diminish those greatnesses if you don't fully accept your misfalls?

Myself, as an easy example. I can't legally drive. I love science but hate research and laboratory processes. I can't stop myself from questioning math long enough to understand it. I get really obsessive about making lists, and I have to do them before doing things, even if they end up wrong. I write novels inefficiently, because I prefer to write them out of order, which ultimately tends to lead to wasted scenes. I hate citrus. I'm near addicted to weird things. I'm fiercely independent and protective of it. I like to stay up late and get up early and struggle with enjoying sleep.

But I have greatnesses. I am a wonderful writer, particularly realistic fiction novels. I am great at technical writing, because I love science but understand rhetoric and audience-driven communication. I am super intelligent artistically, and have a level of creative innovation and drive that baffles even me sometimes. I am wonderful at questioning everything and giving good insight. I am adaptable. I like vegetables.

I feel like accepting these inadequacies makes me inadequate. I think they make me human. I would never try to tell someone I'm good at driving. I'm not. But i hope to be passable. I want to get better to the point of making me a better, functioning person, but good? C'mon. Inflating myself won't make me better. It'll just make me bloated.

Sometimes being inadequate is kinda okay, as long as you have your own personal greatness too.

Freedom feels like sore thighs and *** dreams, where the epicenter of forever lies in forgetting everything but now.
It makes you wonder sometimes if its just a sharper spike of ASMR or the tickling truths of your soul pricking you on the back of the neck, electrically, as you do all the things in the dark you only heard whispers of as a child.
But there's a real something about how a pair of tongues collide and a summer's day turns into a summer's night, where a young girl goes out to play but returns a grown woman back from partying with one hell of a bite.
How can't you feel like you're flying when just a little to the left and you're seeing starlight in broad day and all the lies you were told to protect your innocence, or womanhood, or whatever to protect the ego of elders and mortality hung over your education like a plague?
For me, I can't help but do the cliche bitten lip and think about all the words that jumble in my head to burn me up before bed.
Yet that fire, as I got older, became more wild and curious and burned without asking just starving for the answer to what was the surprise between my legs that was some sort of angelic kingdom to hide from the boys like they were pillagers and not people.
Funnily, I dragged some ****** boy into the fires and felt some expressive liberty I had never experienced, no one giving a **** about the **** in my head or the **** who I was, just ******* me.
My ****** renaissance led to a swift beheading of the boy, who to my knowledge has yet to grow into a man, yet that feeling of validating importance yet complete erasure of all of my fears and pains has made freedom one hell of a hot, three letter word.  
If I hold on tighter my fingertips feel grafted onto his skin, and without words or letters my whole universe has found some landing just from pleasure and a pinch.
If I kiss his lips and he smiles beneath, there's a roaring power of how letting him touch me brings my body the earth while also tossing it up like a kite, ready to fly the winds, for once careless.  
If my hair gets pulled a little harder I can nearly feel the Declaration of my ****** Independence on my lips and old society lady Great Britain scowling from its high castle, putting its hand together in judgmental prayer thinking it'll never last; I'll come back (I won't).
Freedom feels like forgetting to try to do anything right and ******* everything up, in the best and worst ways, only to come out strong and laughing and better than before.
Freedom is like *** because no one has the right to do anything to my body; not the educators who think I'm forever too young, not the boys who think my **** are rocking but don't know my name, not the parents who lock me up with a key only to find I was born to fit through the bars, not the girls who spell S-L-U-T like its their accusatory safe word against being alone in an unjust world, not anyone.
No one except the syllables between my lips and the brain behind the way I swing my hips, and they say: Hell Yes.