Self-Medicated

Artist R. Silva

Why was I so thin at 17? Why could I see my heart beat and count my ribs? Well, back then we used to call it the Jenny Crank diet, because tweakers are really clever people.

Yes, I see the judgement. I see the look in your eyes.

What you didn’t see is the comfort that I took in the improvised suicide kit that I kept under the mattress of my bed at the age of eight.

You didn’t see the million wasps that would bounce around the inside of my head.

You didn’t see the wasps fall done and sleep when the smoke hit them.

The self-hate, hopelessness, and knowledge, not belief, but absolute certainty that I was wrong, unloved, and unlovable were hidden behind my smile and the middle finger that I gave the world.

You may have overcome adversity, but had you ever stared into the abyss and found the comfort and peace that I had found there, you would not look at me so.

Instead you judge me for seeking a moment of respite, the only way that I knew how, a momentary break from the pain that I felt every moment of every day.

Run, run, as fast as you can; you can’t outrun the demons in your head.

It was only when I could run no more that I turned to fight. I fought without knowledge or weapon, since I had been taught to fear asking for help. I learned what the inside of a padded room looked like at nine. I would never go back there. I lost, and I grew stronger. I bloodied knuckles on barriers that I could have walked around. I learned.

I stumbled from the maze with the abyss still reflected in my eyes and you judge me still.

Fuck you!

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