dissociation a curse
dissociation my enemy
enemy barges in
enemy takes control
control is crippling
control must go
go seek advise
go to friends
friends may ignore
friends may listen
listen to god
listen to nothing
nothing is something
nothing is numbing
numbing craves alcohol
numbing craves drugs
drugs are prescribed  
drugs will fix
fix my brain
fix cracked mirrors
mirrors taunt me
mirrors tell lies
lies i tell
lies cover bruise
bruise my hand
bruise my brother
brother is silent
brother please forgive
forgive me father
forgive me mother
father please help
father is futile
futile defines me
futile invites suicide
suicide with pills
suicide i survived
survived from coma
survived in hospital
hospital is helpful
hospital gives answers
answers for family
answers to problems
problems with doctors
problems with diagnosis
diagnosis is discovered
diagnosis is depersonalization
depersonalization creates poet
depresonalization becomes mad

mad
poet

Nobody ever speaks of
The sadness that can be felt
In your bones
The kind that can be
Encompassed
By your whole being
Nobody ever tells you
How to manage
Feeling like a stranger in your own body
Sometimes
I am a stranger to my own body
Depersonalization
Is a term that
I have come to know all too well
I have come to know
What it's like
To watch life happen
From a distance
To feel
Persistant and constant
Dissociation
Nobody ever told me
About the depression
That can take over your soul
While simultaneously
Forcing you
To watch it happen
Without any ability to stop it
Sometimes I feel as if
I can't feel anything at all
And that in itself
Is truly terrifying
But I am trying my hardest
To take hold of the steering wheel
I refuse
To let it take control
In the past I have
Locked all of the doors to myself
Thinking that
If I was the only inhabitant
Than nothing could get to me
But lately
I've realized
That letting people in
Will not be the downfall of myself
Lately
I've realized
That opening up
Is the key
To finding answers
Is the key
To finding help.

Imagine your eyes
as bluegreenhazelgrayamber
windows to actuality.

Now imagine your eyes
s lo   w lllllllly

f
      a
              d

                      i
                    
                             n
              
                                    g

to






black.

The flowers will bloom, when will this child inside me bloom?
The vines have thorns.
Will these thorns keep pricking me?
I can't even really feel them.
Will I heal?
This deflated heart is waiting to be pumped with your love for all the right reasons.
This ain't no treason.
The emptiness in between the walls.
Spaces between my teeth.
Can I just feel again?
Make me feel again.

You can taste
the psychosis on my
lips but there's no
guarantee that I will feel it.
There's an umbilical chord
holding me down to ***** reality
and depending on my
perspective
it either looks like a
dog leash or a
noose.

Inject a sedative with a rusty
needle at the end of my
nervous system. I'm immune; there's
misery mixed in with my
white blood cells that swallows
all sense of introspection. When my
soul plummets down like an anchor
and the floating stops
feeling safe, I welcome the chest
pains with open arms. The pins and
needles in my lungs are better
than burning them.

Look through my eyes
and sometimes nothing is real.
Live through my heart and
it hurts like hell when
I'm not drowning in air.
Think with my head and
either you will want to get out,
or it will kick you out.

It's strange how through times of turmoil you discover who belongs in your life.
In that moment, you stop everything you're doing, just to let that one person know,
You love them.
They fight on, and live on, through the inner struggles in their heads,
Struggles some of us who are weaker, would not understand.
She said, "If this is the end, let it be beautiful."
So let it be beautiful,
Because she said so.

Mirror on my side.
Walls paper thin.
Empty shell on a bike.
Soulless soul count to ten.

Read my words
and hear my sorrow.
See as I have seen
into the depths of hell.

Serotonin flows within me once again
as I write this poem.
A soul filled soul
breaths once again.

Hyperventilation
Depleting frustration
Suffocation
A painful sensation
Desperation
Without moderation
Devastation
Eternal damnation
Deprivation
Emotional mutilation
Derealization
Fear escalation
Depersonalization
Self extermination

Do you know how ******* hard it is to have a disorder with no cure?
“It’s all in your head.”, because it’s so complex that doctors can prescribe anything for you, of course shock therapy isn’t a thing anymore.

I look down at my hands and think, “Is this real?” Of course it’s ******* real, stop being irrational.
But, why doesn’t it feel real?
I’ve been eating fine, sleeping ok, taking my medicine. Why do I feel as if my brain is not connected with my body?
Well, maybe it is. Maybe a part of me just isn’t here anymore.
I don’t know how to explain it. I just feel, off. I’m not me. I’m not anything. I can feel the oblivion in my veins. My sense of reality is gone, and I don’t know what to do with myself.

I can see what’s going on, and I do have control over my actions, but my thoughts are a jumble and some tastes, smells, etc don’t feel the same.
I miss myself.
I miss myself so badly.
Don’t get me wrong, clinical depression and such has kind of guided me towards self hatred, but I’d rather feel self hatred, than feel, this.
Feel everything at once, yet feeling nothing at all.

I’m reckless. I say what I want, do what I want, because nothing feels real.
I even dropped out of school, quit my job, all at 16 and I stay home trying to play video games to distract myself.
Distracting myself always seems to be the best solution. It holds me back from the temptation of just laying on my floor, crying and screaming, just wanting to feel normal. Feel whole.

I can sometimes have normal conversations. Sometimes. Very rarely unless it’s someone very close. Even family members I avoid speaking to in general.
Calen has been helping me, alot. Mostly distracting me. He understands my needs in general, and doesn’t insist on my spilling my emotions to him. He just supports me through it all. If I need to cry, if I need to laugh, he’ll be there.
He’s honestly the only person, well the only thing that has made me think twice.

Now, I’ve laid on the floor, screaming to the moon and to any higher power that might be out there to make me feel sane.

But Calen has seemed to be the only thing that makes me feel, real.
Like, continuing life is actually purposeful.
You could give me a list of things I could do with my life, and amazing things I could accomplish, but all I have to do is talk to him for 5 minutes, even if we talk about nothing of the sort, and I’ll feel the need to live another 24 hours.

There is the latent hum of some probably-industrial sumthin-or-another in the distance. Sounds like a ferry at dock, or the Townsite mills characteristic hum of eternity as it once acted as the forever-whitenoise of my past life in Powell River.

Sasha has gone to see her friend a floor down. I sit candidly at her desk typing these words on her MacBook Pro.. her dorm is an ambient water of a place, but with every passing night I spend in it, it becomes harder and harder to fall asleep. The bed feels like wood board or padded cement now. Sasha rolls around in her sleep, occasionally choking on her tonsils and gagging a prolonged operatic note of snores. It's not like she can help it.. often, she talks about removing her tonsils as if it's something she can do with a spare moment between classes.

The dorm was easier for me to inhabit when I imagined her living quaintly and quietly without my constant everywhereness.. on her first night alone in bed, she slept like a baby and the overheating, I'm sure, was less to bear in my absence as there wasn't a ******* furnace spurning mammalian blood to every antipode of my body for the sake of staying alive.. just her capillaries attending to the night-shift and leaving no feedback loop between our ***-drenched thermostats. There was a feeling of otherness to it that I could warm my soul with as if I were people-watching at a mall filled with everyone I've ever encountered in the matrix.

She's beautiful. Sasha, I mean. Superstitious despite her attempts to claim otherwise, but of a massive intelligence often unspoken and endowed with a linguistic nature that can speak regardless of words. Highly suspicious of some perceived bond between Anya and I that can't seem to be severed, and playfully dousing suspicions of general infidelity into many of our brink-night conversations.. I can't say I do much to remedy her paranoia as I always kick it back with consistent jokes of having '30 girlfriends' or 'that was what the girl I ****** the other night said as well! Trippy.'

These are obvious jokes. I would never cheat on her and it's a pain to have her imagine I would.

Christ be honest, I can never find the time to write anymore because I keep pretending I'm busy. I keep glassing my eyes apart with coffee and **** and feeling the inner sting to write and write and write until my fingers are bruised and my entire demeanour is nothing more than an existence in pure, floating consciousness of sleet-covered panic attack self-immoliating itself in a Wal-Mart parking lot just to say hiya, Good God, how's the cloud of idolatry today? Fleeting? Empty? Shat? I'm starting to think you have the shorter end of the stick cuz I'm pretty sure I've found the Kingdom of Heaven and it's all a bunch of beautiful panic remedy exacterbated by SSRI psychedelic depersonalization with a life-wish disguised as a death-wish to push the envelope for mails sake, cuz I've got a message for the human race and all it says is 'humanity is not a RACE chill the **** OUT and become the human pace for the sake of nil planet without a plan you aren't a ******* poster-boy you're a poser' all very stone-cold thoughts in a volcano.. all very valid but pointless semantic gestures towards Finnegans Wake and the sequel I'd like to write called Finnegans Nap.

The other day, I stole a book from the university library.

I had a freelance article I had to start and preferably finish that same day, and Sasha had decided to skip psychology for Charles Bukowski so we scouted a quiet space on the windowsill overlooking the perpetual busk of student body.. I plugged my laptop in and sourly gazed at the flakey subjects I had to choose from until I noticed we were right next to a giant section entirely dedicated to the study of the Beat Generation. I picked out the closest book, and dove up on some academic diatribe about the implementation of Timex making watches an affordable commodity during the post-war boom, causing economy to become totalitarian in its accuracy and thus mental hegemony. It worked its way into stating that Jack Kerouac's On the Road was a blatant and concise rebellion against this form of timekeeping in its hedonic, careless flow that was not marked by 6 o'clock or on-the-dot redundancy.. the subject matter being so dense and alluring, I turned to Sasha and said, 'I have to steal this book.'

She chuckled a little, being a chronic kleptomaniac herself, and retorted, 'are you sure you can do that? They have these sensor things that go off when you leave.. they'd catch you probably.' In my mind, I was needing to exorcise myself of Judaeo-Christian morality so as to guarantee a survival and thriving intellectual feed regardless of red-tape or monetary symbolism.. I saw myself adapting to a hedonic habit of robbery for the sake of food and freedom or some such half-witted excuse like that, and took Sasha's warning as a challenge to transcend my typical moral comfort zone.

Glassy-eyed, I asked Google how I'd go about bypassing the security scanners and, lo and behold, within 5 minutes I had my answer and was already digging through the books binding with my house-key to remove the magnetic strip hidden in the spine. After 10 minutes of exhilaration and anxiety at potentially being caught, the strip was out and jammed between two loose wood-boards in the window sill. I told Sasha we should try to leave.

As I neared the scanner, I let go of consequence in remembrance of my mortality, the blank expressions on our faces probably hinting at some form of degenerate nervousness had someone decided to analyze us aaaaaand yet.. we made it through as safe as a bird through an open window then out the other side.