indiestellar

I am not a poet. I refuse to be such.

(Because that's not me.)

I'm not a rhymer for the masses, only a writer who can just write.

This is personal, and therefore might attract possible criticism. "This is ridiculous. This is crazy. This sounds soooo whiny. This isn't something you should post. This is something you need to show to your therapist."

Well then...

Bring it on.

Lately my head feels like it's been inside a bag. A sticky, plastic, un-recyclable bag. It's filled with a hazy fog that curdles every thought or task I try to complete. It's never done. My body is tired all the time. The gears inside are clogged with gunk that's coming out of nowhere. I'm withdrawing because I'm tired. I'm tired because my head has a cloudy forecast with a chance of crazy. My head is cloudy because-

I have no clue.

But it feels more than that. My brain feels so heavy inside its cavity. It sort of feels like that. A cavity that's rotted through and its destroying its neighboring teeth. A nuisance that's starting to affect everything around me. Ma gets irritated when I'm in my head and she's talking. I don't like making her upset. I can't help it.

I can't help to say how much of my fault it is.

And how much it isn't.

The battle I've fought with my head goes back to the diaper era. Of course I knew nothing was wrong. How could I? I was a baby. Babies don't understand things like bandaged thoughts and rippled tides also known as concentration. I guess they do, subconsciously, like we all understand physics that way. We know what it is, but we don't add up the math behind it. We just know.

I digress, as thoughts always do up here.

I remember knowing that I was wrong inside. And no. I'm not talking about how a girl feels inside that they're actually a boy. NO. Ment-ally. I'm talking mentally. How my brain felt squeezed into a tiny compartment aka my skull. Not like I have much intelligence that's pushing my brain out my ears. Not like that. It just feels...stuffed. Like a turkey. Or a moose. Amazing thing taxidermy is, ain't it? Everything is detached and hazy. I'm scared. A kid with no clue what's making her frustrated and cry. A kid who hid in a coat closet to get away from the world. From problems.

I still wish I could do that.

People give the worst criticism nowadays, don't you think? So, no. Couldn't possibly go through that. Outrageous. Petty. Scandalous. What would people think of an eighteen year old girl huddling herself in a closet.

Probably more than very much.

I know now what's wrong, but what I thought was so wrong, was so right. I used to hate myself for acting like that, and I still wince at the past when it comes around. It's hard running away when you can't really run away from it. How can you run from a thought? It's always there. In your head. Waiting for the opportunity to jump you in your mind's dark alley.

This is more than a bearing of a secret that isn't so secret to me. It's the smallest peephole I've created, so I can let someone inside my head, and somehow find a connection that could possibly make me feel less alone. And give someone the feeling they aren't alone too. People have told me I'm not. But that doesn't stop me from feeling it. And writing here has made it a little more bearable.

So thanks.

<3 IndiTell