I’ve been debilitated by a question mark illness for the last year, that’s made my head fill with the squishy part of a 1000, jelly fish and “white or wheat” a hard decision for me to process without a complete mental breakdown. The once strong academic, with a penchant for telling off douche bags, now a floppy little rag doll. Not a pretty picture. Not a fun life to live, but it’s mine. It’s the hand I was dealt and I can boycott or embrace it. Sickly Sara is here to lurk over my shoulder for now with the heavy breath of the death angel fogging up my glasses as I try to see.
Yes, I’ve struggled with anxiety, depression, psychiatry, mental disease, my whole life. Taboo in our society. As taboo as saying that I don’t agree with the “entitled millennial” declaration or that I’ve been a republican since I was 18. I digress, but it always circles back around to the aforementioned idea, my head may be fucked, but it’s MY fucked up head. Pretty flowers for words, you see?
I write how I talk and neither are always particularly pleasant as I’ve got a mouth like a whiskey drunk sailor and a brain stem I could liken to an un-filtered cigarette. Smooth on the breath in, but once it rolls around your half-pink lungs a bit you realize what you’ve done to your body. Often what happens when words fall off my lips. About the time they crowd around my teeth I realize it’s too late and the damage has already been done. I’ve lost friends, I’ve lost family, but I never lost me.
Nope. Half goody two shoes, Smokey the Bear, saves the day martyr and half rule breaking, rebel with a cause if it doesn’t get me in TOO much trouble…or I won’t get caught. Coming from the parents I have and the generations before that has created a special little being and it’d be strange if I wasn’t this fucked up.