Welcome to Psychotics Anonymous. State your name, and little about yourself:
My name is not important.
I have a problem.
I don’t tend to preoccupy myself with others’ problems.
See, I don’t care about my friends, loved ones, or myself as much as I should.
I mean, obviously, I realize that I don’t care about these things, but my problem is that I don’t know the real reason why I don’t care about them. I know I have a problem, but I don’t know how to fix it. Think of it this way, you know when you look at roadkill on the road, you might feel sorry for it, for about a second, then you blow it off and keep driving. Some people might kick it or laugh at it, if they walk by. Well see, that’s how I feel about important people in my life , and at times, about myself. I’m the one kicking that road **** while its down. Except the road ****….is my best friend. Do I mean what I do? I’m not entirely sure, but I do know that it’s wrong. I know that I should care, I know that I’m a bad person for it, but I don’t know why I still do it anyway. I have a problem. My best friend is in the hospital and I’m sitting home writing this instead of visiting her while she’s 10 minutes away. Instead of apologizing and telling her it was my fault. I’m sitting here not caring instead of going up to her and telling her the truth she needs to hear. I have a problem. My family’s a woodpile on the side of my house. The wood I never use but I like to glance at from time to time and then ignore a few seconds later. That woodpile’s pretty close to me, its always in my proximity, but yet…I never seem to care that it’s there. But I notice it. Oh, how I do notice it. I notice it so much that I pretend to not notice it because my lack of caring for the noticing of this woodpile is the only thing that matters. I have a problem. My brother is sitting on my mantle, every day he stares into my eyes, hoping and wishing I would care. Every day he’s there reminding me that he not only needs to be noticed, he needs to be cared about, and so do I. And every day I ignore him and that photograph with that picture perfect Ivy League smile.I have a problem. I don’t care for myself. I don’t really do much grooming. I mean, I shave…because I hate touching my face and feeling prickles. I don’t cut my hair, I don’t shower until I start smelling. I don’t care. I work at the one place where caring doesn’t matter. I work counting other people’s money. I don’t get into trouble or miscount because miscounting annoys me and everything has to be perfect. It needs to be counted right, or what’s the point of counting it? It’s not because I care for the welfare of the people I count money for. Au contraire, they have more money than I do and don’t deserve my care. I have a problem. Don’t tell me I’m doing okay because I’ve completed step one of your program, because I’ve admitted that I have a problem. I’ve just said it five times. I knew I’ve had a problem before I got here. That’s not the hard part. I want to care. I want to feel empathy, or at least sympathy. I want be like everyone else. But the hard part, is that I’m not. I’m not like everyone else. And though I’ve recognized my problems they’ll always stay with me regardless of how much you try to push them out of me. You can tell me to go to these therapy sessions til I’m seventy-five, but the only thing that it’ll do is just show you how many more problems I’ve come to discuss.
Another Prose. I know...I'm not supposed to put prose on a poetry site, but whatever. I'm doing it. Enjoy :)
