WORDS ONLY GOD CAN HEAR, a memoir

buckwild // 01

act i.
"roses on a short bay bridge"
DATED IN MAR. 2020

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN. . .

I suppose it isn't a far-fetched idea if I were to blame my recurring mentalities on all the messed up things in my life. But I refuse to be that person simultaneously. I was raised better. I'm supposed to be a well-adjusted person, no? That girl of God...

Oh, fuck it all away anyway.

So, it is day two, maybe twenty. The loneliness commences, and I am still afraid of what may happen once the future ends. I woke up today with one thought and one thought only-- head back to sleep. Don't wake up. It's been one fucking week and I'm already so focused on just sleeping away this pandemic shit. Or is it that urge to actually cut my life away, and then watch the vision emitting from my eyes wander into black? I think both.

Once I woke up though, like REALLY woke up, those thoughts faded. Okay, that's a lie in itself. They didn't fade. They were placed on the backburner for me to examine sometime later when I felt happy again. But then I got dressed and I think I broke my record for speed-running through the excess clothes on my carpeted floor. I must've went through fifty shirts or something because once I was done, the ground was littered with patterns of black, and black, and black, and then the occasional blue or red. Like a trinity of the only colors my brain ever considered primary. Yellow doesn't look too good against light brown, so I figured I'd replace it with the most basic of all: black.

Anyway, once that was all finished, I headed outside, and I skipped breakfast like usual. The same arguments between my brother and I weren't favored in terms of being omitted from our morning routines though, so that was that. No complaints from Mom or Dad though. Easy transition into actually heading elsewhere.

I started thinking a lot though, and as usual, thinking leads to problems. I feel as though it's a miracle nobody can read into my brain though. If they did, I don't know that anyone could survive the onslaught of oddities I come up with. It's not just persisting thoughts of death, but the actual acts and different ways people could die. I always feared heights, but could that be my way of going? You never quite know your destiny, and I started to think, well, what if mine is my fears persisting into reality? I'd hate to die from something like tumbling down the stairs, because at least in planes you don't really feel the pain for too long. But broken necks and triggered nerves go hand in hand.

God forbid I try anything stupid like that some day.

The first thing I had to do, of course, when I was already at my grandmother's was just finish up the homework packets assigned fairly often. Naturally, I didn't do that, but instead decided I'd get a hit of swiftly acquired lithium and seroquel and then sleep half the day away again, as it had been a routine for a bit. But of course that never ended up happening so instead I just fucking lounged around, tried to write a poem or two, and ate. Tried to, at least. The purging isn't as bad as it used to be but it's still there, and it still makes my stomach twist in knife-like motions.

Papa's room had become sort of like a haven. A hideout, even. I had never seen a place like this before, where it was so silent yet so loud you could make noise and hear pins drop and then echo all at once. I had to keep myself holed up in it to keep the noise from coming out, otherwise my body wouldn't be able to take the tension that is my grandmother and her overbearing, humiliating stance on life. It was also a good place to ensure a daily supply of decent pills.

For example, if you pull back the drawer, you can see holes from where rats and mice gnawed their way out of cramped, dark spaces. The bottoms of the dresser that the drawer belonged to. But if you pull back the entire dresser, and you peel part of the frame back (it's relatively old and houses nothing but a few cobwebs, last I observed), then you can store pretty much everything. The pills, the liquor cans, the mild amount of whatever crazy shit you want. I haven't gone as far as to acquire anything harder than Valium, and I don't plan on it in the near future.