Water melts sugar

I’ve always been very sensitive and easily affected, not so much in the way that I would be easily manipulated, but in a way that I sympathize with things and people very easily. I absorb feelings like a sponge and even though I consider it a valuable quality it can sometimes, or more often, prove to be destructive. Films and books and articles, even simple conversations or words, can bring up something completely different from what they were about. My mind has a tendency for building bridges, you see, and it isn’t that rare that these bridges end up surprisingly long and curvy. I can see the cover-art of a movie and remember something about my first English teacher whose son had a hard time learning some letters and made mistakes which, not surprisingly, my then nine-year-old mind found extremely funny. Or I can see pictures of Keira Knightley in a photoshoot for Vogue and instantly remember the October 2007 issue that I bought on the day my parents sat us down to tell us about their divorce. Which will enforce more and more bridges and… In the end I’ll wind up thinking how the hell I got to thinking about this in the first place. If I’m in luck, I’ll forget. If not, I’ll somehow connect it to present events and try to find reasons for all these fucked-up (soap opera, non-sensical, the-kind-of-thing-only-a-desperate-screen-writer-would-write kind of fucked-up) things happening to me.
 
I want answers. I have wanted answers since the day I first had a hunch that something was not right, which, doing the math adds up to just under five years. I’ve tried scientific explanations, I’ve filled my brain with psychological facts, I’ve read through philosophy articles and religious scripts and watched people around me just to get more proof that I’m not living with robots that someone has operated in order to drag me down into a melting-pot of psychosis and trauma-induced personality disorders. (And taking into account I have in fact considered robots and conspiracies, their plans might actually be working).
 
Of course, I could simply go and talk. Ask my parents why the fuck they let these kinds of things happen, ask them to write down everything, ask them to finally tell me what is a lie and what isn’t — but there seems to be some sort of protocol to this talking-business. It is the I Am An Adult, I Am The Parent And You Are The Kid So You Take What I/We Give You protocol, which has been going on for these five years now, and is still on-going even though I’m an adult these days. I understand you are an adult responsible for your actions and you have the right to keep or give information out. But what I don’t understand is why you choose to twist the truth in order to terrorize/destroy/change your children’s view of the other parent (or to terrorize/destroy/change everyone else’s view), when you could have just as easily kept the rage to yourself (as a responsible adult) and kept your mouth shut in front of the people whose minds and bodies you can so easily affect with your actions.
 
But let’s put that to rest, shall we?
 
The status of my mental stability and health has been quite undetectable lately. I’ve been doing my clam-shell trick daily. I haven’t cut since I got here which makes a little over a month. I have wanted to though. Very, very badly at times. But I get my fair share of physical abuse from my little brother, and it sometimes does part of the trick that cutting would. I have finally have my psychiatrist appointment in two weeks. Only waited a month here, but hey, at least I got it. I’m unhappy everyday — but still I’m happy everyday. It goes up and down pretty steadily and I know when the anxiety will hit me. Most of the time. It will still catch me off guard. I know I’m not whole yet. My mother has gotten into the habit of asking me, on a scale of 4 to 10, what is my number for the day. I usually lie. But sometimes I don’t. I’m still not used to being around her all the time.
 
I’m having quite a lot of trouble with eating or having the inspiration to make something. I have weird thoughts about specific foods being disgusting and won’t want to eat them. I’ve grown to hate my thighs and the fact that there almost is a gap between them but not quite and they touch just barely when I walk and it irritates me. I’m scared of phones, mostly picking up. I have this feeling that people are watching me all the time. I think they want to hurt me.
 
And I’m scared.
I’m scared all the time. And paranoid.
I’m scared of turning the lights on at night in case someone is in the room.

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