Desire of Psychosis

No.

I can’t take it.

What do I need for people to care? How many times will I rashly act and blatantly seek attention before someone will help? Do I have to be crazy? Is that it? Will I then get the help for which I’ve longed?

That must be my safest option. I’ve reached the point of desperation where I must resort to any alternative other than physical harm. Anything that I can do to make people care. I could be a psychopath, my own Ted Bundy or Joker. Grandiose, intelligence, charm. I have the qualities, the face value attributes, all that’s lacking is the emotionlessness, deception, and impulsiveness that come with these mannerisms.

I’m sick of being selfless, I need help. Someone, no, anyone to give me the attention that will help me get better, to improve my mental state. Surely, any consequences cannot compare to the pain I’ve endured and will continue to suffer unless I can figure this out. I just want to indulge in the tranquillity seen in others. I can’t continue, mixed up in this miserable, inescapable muck. How long will I have to act before someone helps, or notices me? Will I have played the role so much that I’m engulfed? Or will I relent, tired, and succumb to life’s path earlier than intended? Maybe that’s my destiny. It’s possible that I was never destined to go far in life, and that my only purpose was to help others, ensuring they had the successful lives of which I could only dream.

When she left a part of me went too. A fraction of my personality, life, a fragment of my being. The ataraxy I found in service, listening to others' problems and their drama, all of the pain I would try to alleviate for those that I loved the most, is now just an annoyance whenever I’m sucked into their spiel. The crying, whinging, and endless “what should I do?”, is burdensome, reminding me that I cannot fix myself. And if I can’t get off my high horse, thinking my hardship is the unprecedented problem of problems, why should I stoop in an attempt to fix the fickle problems of my ‘friends’ who are unable to recognise my issues? Not even if I shred myself into pieces in front of them, holding eye contact throughout the process would they be able to see my internal screams hidden deep inside my dark irises.

All because of her.

The lies, deception, her sick standards of love that sliced through my easily demolished walls. In the end, that’s what I miss most. Her attention, affection, and enticing appreciation that held me in a death grip even when she realised her forgotten admiration of the one that came before. And now this part of me is gone, from which I thrived, and embraced more than any other part of my life. Gone.

As long as I can put myself out there, hope endures. There’s a chance. More will know my name. They’ll talk about what I’ve done and learn of my past, the empty ambitions that I spout whenever someone asks of my future. They’ll understand how I behave, my personality, and even notice as those attributes and mannerisms begin to change. They’ll understand as I force myself to be a different person, internally screaming for help as my exterior facade remains level headed, putting on whatever act I need to get where I want.

People will know who I am.

My family might be empathetic and offer support, instead of attempting to resolve my problems with high and mighty solutions. They might realise my struggles and stop assuming that - since my life isn’t as bad as those in third-world countries - I’m living in a world of euphoric bliss with only minor inconveniences with which to deal.

Then finally, they might know who I am.