Misdiagnosis

I know I was diagnosed with harm OCD a few years ago, but something tells me I have a bigger problem than intrusive, violent thoughts that aren't genuine.

No, they're real and they're genuine.

I'm writing about a serial killer one day because he could have been me had my parents been a lot more controlling and had things been way worse for me. I'm living proof that anyone could do evil things under the right circumstances.

I could deny all I want to that these two characters in my future book who have murderous impulses are not like me at all. Back when I first wrote it, I disassociated from that potentially being me. And oh God, it fucking is. So many people I've known or know have this modality. They're potential murderers just like me.

Normal people will never understand what it's like to be so screwed over by the system that you're the monster they're more than glad to create. They don't care. They know this society makes people sick, and yet, somehow, it's your fault that you're sick.

I'm still too shut down to talk on YouTube. I'm too shut down to get to know new people. I often get too shut down to even write.

I'm deeply depressed. I knew a day would come when people would see the real me and hate me. Still not ready to create a music/storytelling channel where I'd have to use my voice. I barely have enough capacity to write books.

So deprived of love that I'm shaking. Shaking from the deep abandonment and the abuse. The lies.

I'm lying down everyday in the bed they abused me in.

And just like everyone else has done, there's still that part of me who wants me to blame myself for lying everyday in that death bed. The death bed I didn't really choose. The death bed I'm too sick and fall back into.

This world broke me, and I don't care about winning. I don't care about proving anything to anyone. Why on Earth would I want to prove myself to a bunch of egoistical apes who just want to spit on me over and over again?

All I have left is writing and art. I still don't really trust my inner voice. There is a million reasons why I could be wrong about so many things. But all I have is what I genuinely think even if my brain is broken and smashed up and barely works. Like a record player that scratches constantly.

I'm intelligent, yet people treat me like they did Einstein- that I'm too stupid and slow. I don't have any comforting thoughts to hold onto.

I'm gonna burn all the books from The Darryl & Diana series if I mean nothing to Josh. I don't think I mean nothing to him, but to me, love might as well be fantasy.

Because I'm so deprived of it, I'm slowly dying. Getting all the breadcrumbs from everyone around me until I starve.