The Weight On A Person’s Shoulders :

I’ve been hesitating on writing for awhile… More accurately, I’ve been scared of finally coming back to something like this. Writing is like the ultimate escape for me, but it is also the ultimate reality check. I definitely was trying to avoid my reality. The thing is… reality can be so hard.

My current reality is like some final OP hero skill that involves gravity magic and world collapsing events.

In this reality, I am an overweight sick kid who keeps falling every time they try to stand up.

I am the kid whose depression meds run out when I need them most, and the kid who is an epic failure.

I guess I am the kid whose reality is life when treading water starts to become more like semi drowning….

But I am back, now. I am putting some words back onto the page, because there is nothing else I can do. I have reached the point that even blocking out reality doesn’t work.

It suuuuuccckkksss….

I am scared; I am alone; I am confused; I am sad; I am lonely; I wish I didn’t have to take another breath; I wish I wasn’t alive as me; I wish I was anything else, but who I am in the moment.

Yes, lots of things have happened. Lots of goods and bads. Successes and failures. Triumphs and Tri-ummms…

There has been too much to put it all down on one post, so I am going to just say this.

I am back

This week I will be uploading the Fan Fiction floods I have been working on, writing on my blog everyday, rejoining social media and hopefully going back to fighting to love myself again.

Thank you for stopping by (ง ´͈౪`͈)ว ,

I.L. Knight

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When It Rains It Pours – Luke Combs

Web Novel Updates :

Before I sit down in assignment hell and overload I just wanted to quickly update two of the chapters for a web novel I have been shopping around….As soon as I get out from under my assignment and life overload I will update more.

MOOOORRREEEE,

I.L. Knight

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All The Tired Horses – Bob Dylan

 

Am I Actually Upper Middle Class? :

I’ve been struggling to find a way to become independent from my family for the last year or two. I think it is the biggest step a person can take in moving past having family issues is to not rely on them in such an all demanding way. The problem is I’ve lived my life as a spoiled middle class girl that wasn’t supposed to work. You could say my savings and job related skills were minimal.

All of that aside, I was sitting with a friend one day going over what I now know about money and how I want to take steps towards separating financially from my family by the time I graduate undergrad and a comment was made about me owning stocks. It was made to connect the dots with being someone in the upper middle class economic bracket. And being told that got me thinking about being middle class. I mean first off, owning stocks doesn’t equal having actual money. I mean it is mostly used for continuous reinvestment that you don’t touch until future unless emergency. Plus, when shit goes bad in the market you lose the money. Yea, there is privilege about knowing about stocks, but it is definitely not a type of thing you can wake up and buy and then have a bunch of money.

And my grandparents, the one who provide for my family’s lifestyle? Well, my grandpa is his old age still gets up between 4 and 5 in the morning to prepare to work all day in the store. I kind of get why he is a crabby Republican. He was definitely someone who never got much from the government except the benefits of being in the army. However, it was the Vietnam era and so were benefits even worth that much if the risk was such more while serving? He thinks he achieved the American dream for his family of poor immigrants, but I’m not so certain. My grandmother on the other hand is completely pessimistic about the American dream. Hard work can only go so far for her. Yet, she works even harder than my grandfather.

My grandmother grew up in a wealthy family that had to spend the money to about every other person or vice in the family then her. She didn’t go to college and she didn’t have a chance to work much, because she married young and became a house wife. My grandparents didn’t have money in those days. My grandma’s family only helped my grandfather find a job and take them out for a weekend dinner. So she became the Queen of Couponing and making all your furniture. When she even got the nice house though there was still struggles. Where we were in the ‘middle class bracket’ would constantly go up and down. Sometimes, they could afford a second house. Other times they had to sell it. Sometimes I could afford private school. Other times my mom had to take a less paying job to work at the school for reduced tuition or I had to get a scholarship.

But you don’t see all of that, because being anywhere in the realm of middle class you are dressed up presentable. Comments can’t or shouldn’t be made because then you would be a snob, or undeserving of your luck. It doesn’t matter if you yourself don’t care about money, or if you are only trying to understand the worth of it. It seems to constantly be going, so up and down no matter where you started (unless you are super rich then you really don’t have that problem).

But even if I was still upper middle class, I got a lot of problems. A lack of money always seems to be a more physical problem. However, having money always seems to bring psychological ones. A shit ton of them. I mean the wealthy side has disowned and abandoned the middle class side. Eight to nine years later they still don’t talk. My mother expects a paycheck from me if I exceed in any manner of economic stability in the future….Well, I don’t think that one is such a bad thing. You know, tradition, family paying back what’s due or someone’s care. Although, my grandparents point that out as wrong. Ah…whatever this isn’t about my mother’s shallow future shoe or botox collection.

I think it just about with money you always get a struggle and you never seem to know your place. There is the broad sense of you are poor, so it doesn’t matter to the world technically how poor you are. There is the out of the realm sense where you are so rich it is painful to know how much, or else you will become a maniac. There’s the middle class where you are so overly critical that you are constantly filling out paperwork or questionnaire’s to know technically where exactly you stand.

But see. In any case you still have problems. And in my case, even if my family is middle class, they don’t just pull out a card and give me what I want. It’s always what they think I should want. I still had to work for my interests alone on my own dime… and not any dimes I earned from owning stocks.

I kind of hate money even if it important for society… It is always leaving a sticky imprint on everyone’s’ lives.

I can’t even afford rent on my own. Independence is a far away dream,

I.L. Knight

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She Works Hard For The Money – Donna Summer

On Friendship:

I had a friend in town a few days ago and he asked me a question out of a nowhere. He asked me, as he was pulling our Publix sandwiches out of the bag, if there was a friend we wouldn’t want to be. I mean who does that? Isn’t the standard who would you want to be? And then he had the nerve to not like my answer. I’m sorry I didn’t live up to your expectations. I mean jeez it’s my life.

The friend is was expecting me to never choose was a friend he knew I was close with. A capable, hard working, organized always been an adult type of friend. Yes, I definitely admire her. Hell, I would beg a G-d for a scrap of the resolution and productivity she can muster on a daily basis. I mean she has capitalized and re-institutionalized the meaning of being a capable independent woman…. but admiration of skills aside that doesn’t mean I want to suddenly have her life.

I mean first of all ever person has their own challenges. A part of me believes you get the challenges you are able to overcome. Which means if I had her challenges I would be starting off in an even worse place then I am now.

Secondly, and probably the most honest reason, there is a fundamental difference between the two of us. She is the capable, resolved, hard working person who can compartmentalize on a whole nother level. I am the emotional, guilt ridden, cynical realist, that doesn’t move on from things and tends to wallow too much. There’s a silver lining about me though, I think. My problems, or these sort of problems, tend to come from being self aware (or overly self aware) of your body, thoughts, and emotional states. You basically skipped almost all of Maslow’s triangle and achieved the top block. When you live as that sort of person, since from as far back as you can remember, living any other way sounds a bit…harsh? I can’t imagine navigating the world not perfectly aware of what I’m feeling in every moment. Even if sometimes I wish I was a numb dead fish on a like a sea bank somewhere.

I have definitely been uncomfortable and critical of who I am. SO MANY TIMES. I still haven’t gotten over the wallflower description. “Oh, you know. You are like that wallflower who successfully blends when she forgets she is trying to blend, BUT HEY once you’re noticed man you just can’t look away from you.” …. “Uh, thanks, I guess.”.. “No problem, man. Just thought you should know. You really stand out when you are trying to blend in.”… Yea, I am not over that conversation. Or constantly being called the quirky one.

Still, I think it is okay to be your own person with your own problems. Even if you want to still admire another person. People shouldn’t ask you who do you not want to be, or who would you want to be. I think a better question is who are you going to be. It’s not about anything else, but the ideals you personally want to achieve.

Right?

I.L. Knight

 

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Let Me Be Myself – 3 Doors Down

Ruining My Happy Place:

Whelp, I moved houses. And this new house has been super great, it fits every box for a warm happy home that is conducive to living a new chronic life. An added bonus: it is next to the Japanese gardens in my town. It is a great place I love to just sit in silence and like find some time to myself and be around nature. It is a happy place for me in a town that has historically not been so happy for me.

AND THEY RUINED IT. THEY FUCKING RUINED IT. THEY RUINED IT FOR ME SO BADLY I CAN’T GO BACK FOR AT LEAST A YEAR, SO I CAN GET OVER HOW THEY FUCKING RUINED IT.

First, my grandmother went around the gardens complaining how the price of entrance and how it was a money trap. Which she emphasized when she saw the mini shrine statues where people were leaving change as offering for luck. When I tried to explain they are mimicking what is done in Shinto shrines SHE LAUGHED AT EVERYONE. I may make fun of a lot of people, but even I try to respect spirituality… It got even worse when she kept taking water from various water stations in the park only to constantly spit it out and insult it… THEN END THE TOUR BY SAYING LOCAL PARKS ARE FREE AND PRETTIER….

My Aunt decided to remark in her loud New York voice and persona at every single person who passed us and politely asked us to lower our voices. It is a majority silent garden where people come for peace. THERE WAS NOTHING RUDE OR OFFENSIVE FOR WHAT THEY WERE ASKING. I mean everyone in our family was quickly walking through the gardens anyways without looking. What was there for you to stop and talk about.

And there is my mom. My lovely, sweet All-American, blonde cherub of a mother. I WILL NEVER ALLOW YOU IN A PLACE THAT IS IMPORTANT TO ME AGAIN. Forget trying to share common interests, forget having a simple basic conversation with your daughter. Forget all of that! No matter how much you are frustrated with me, UNJUSTLY FOR A WEEK STRAIGHT OF TORMENT I MIGHT ADD, you don’t say stupid fucking cunty shit.

First, you call me dirty, disgusting and belonging in the woods in the morning, because I changed from washing my hair from everyday to every other day or every two days. A thing that I was doing, because I NEED TO FREAKING HEAL MY HAIR THAT IS DAMAGED. Oh no, you don’t stop the day there. You enter my peaceful refuge and in the middle of a crowd of plant appreciating people yell that I am fat. That my trainer, who by the way if you listened your daughter at all in any conversation is there for helping me regain atrophied muscle and mobility, is failing because I look like shit. OH AND LET US REMIND OURSELVES HOW I AM A BITCH, UNWORTHY, MONSTER, COLD, LAZY, STUPID, ETC…. person in front of this now gawking crowd of people. Then follow me off into a side path to scream at me for not meeting your ideals as the perfect fucking daughter.

And even after all of this. I still feel like crap, because you know what. I entered a state I haven’t been in years! I blacked out for a moment. I didn’t see anything or know what I did. I only know that I felt myself falter and try to regain my balance. But I could tell what I did, I gave you a light kick to the back of the leg to shut you up.

Something I can’t even take satisfaction in because, (1) it is wrong to lift your hand to anyone in that manner, (2) it occurred in a state I was not in control of and (3) YOU DIDN’T EVEN FUCKING SHUT UP. No, the only thing that happened is me self reflecting in the car ride home. Remembering the one and only ever time before this something like this has happened…

I was around thirteen. Our problems had been escalating the last year or two with your insanity getting worse and my general emergence into puberty… Bullying in school was getting worse and I myself was sinking deep into something I wouldn’t yet have a name for. I was in the kitchen making breakfast as I did every day for you, even if I knew you were going to not eat it and throw it out anyways. What the fight about I can’t remember. But I will always remember that feeling of blacking out and coming back into yourself only to see a surprising a result. A result that you instantly wish was satisfying, but has the complete opposite effect. At the park, it was kicking you. Back then, it was the sight of egg dripping down your face. I had cracked them on your head… A surprisingly creative thing though.

My favorite place was ruined for me though the moment I made that connection. It would be a place where I was brought back too one of my worst memories. A time when I was so out of control, because of my feelings, I literal lost myself. It made me realize it’s not just pain, hurt, guilt, sadness I have for my family. There is a large boiling cauldron of resentment that doesn’t want to just stay in the pot anymore.

I kind of wonder now… with another place leaving my list of safety zones where I can go to escape everything. Where can I go to calm my mind or get rid of a migraine…

I sort of wish Ukiyo was as true as the stories. I could bend down right by the edge of a pool of water and reach out towards a reflection…Where I went or what the place was didn’t really matter. It was just disconnected, separate, more realistic than a fantasy, but still yet a fantasy.

It would be a completely different world… wouldn’t it?

I.L. Knight

 

 

hotaru-no-hikari

Japanese Instrumental

 

 

*The picture has a cat in it o(≧∇≦o). This almost a perfect recreation of what I wish for my retirement.*

The Classic Bagel Joint :

Every Jewish girl, boy, appreciator has normally one constant in their lives: a good bagel place that knows them since they were children. So naturally, I do as well. A place that stockpiles the good tofu cream cheese and nova. Although, if we are being honest they need to improve their sturgeon game (seriously, it is so dry).

Today, though, in a place where everyone knows everyone, I was embarrassed. With my family it is always the same conversation. My grandfather tells me all the natural remedies and the power of Tumeric and says that will solve everything. It goes on for twenty minutes, as I get lectured on my dependency on medication and how I shouldn’t do my Humera paperwork, because it has so many side effects. I eventually get frustrated with him, because let’s face my entire family ‘cares’ a lot about my illness and has down all the research. You inability to even name what I have, or generally know my health concerns is a great example.

Still, the embarrassment wasn’t coming from me having to tell my grandfather, “Enough. It’s an auto-immune disease, dad. I don’t get to just take Turmeric every night and I will be cured. Besides, I already do take Turmeric every night!”, it came from walking over to my grandmother afterwards. Her words,” Stop it. That’s all you ever talk about. You and your list of problems. I’m tired, or I hurt. We know. You sound like no vaccine people. Natural cures do work sometimes…” You know why you guys can’t name what I have or my symptoms, MAYBE IT IS BECAUSE SINCE I FIRST STARTED HAVING HEALTH PROBLEMS YOU NEVER LET ME FINISH THE LIST OF ISSUES THAT NEEDED TO BE ADDRESSED BECAUSE THAT WAS CALLED COMPLAINING AND DEPRESSION TO YOU. The immediate answer every time can’t be a cut off, positive story, and now let me inspire motivation. Just acknowledge that waking up feeling like your body is on fire, SUCKS ASS. Acknowledge that I try so hard to keep with your beliefs and not be my mother and avoid relying on medication. I avoid pain killers, nerve-blockers, I even try to maintain sleep without sleeping pills, so I am succeeding on my own strength. Why you got to constantly embarrass me like that?

The woman at the cash register even felt like she needed to say something. Her sister has Lupus, so she said she sort of understood what I was going through. I thanked her, said her sister was brave and lucky to have her, got a free coffee, and a good luck from her. You see. Normal way to engage in conversation. Normal actions. No embarrassment.

I really hate that I write about this stuff so much lately. It’s like all the time my writing is about this and all I want to do is be writing about other things…But this is a part of my life now…a big part…a part I’m struggling with, because it affects everything around me and can change me so much. I can’t predict how I’ll be the next day. I can only hope my pre-planning works out. Fevers out of nowhere, forgetting things a lot one day, not being able to concentrate because your brain can literally not follow a sentence, and the constant check ins to monitor your medication or general health is my new life. It’s uncharted rough waters. You don’t know how to stop you from waking up one day and not being able to lift your knee up more than a few inches, or it being a day where you can’t leave your bed for awhile because you are stuck in a position you don’t remember laying in.

You are just in everyone else’s eyes weak and depressed. Even if you know you aren’t depressed, because of how you can see yourself struggling. I mean, I struggle to try and live through this chaotic ups and downs and even try to be strong, to be happy, to recognize I can’t carry the luggage from my past, and that I have to accept things because my body has no other option at this point. Still, I can’t argue it does make me mentally tired. Explaining these things over and over and not getting the results I want, because I myself can’t decide what I want to hear…I can’t even be a good friend sometimes, because I can’t handle another person.

It weighs heavily on my mind how when this all started I didn’t listen to my gut feelings about this all and got to the point I was at. How I can’t lose the weight I gained in any quick manner, because I can’t do the cardio that would burn those calories, and even if I did I need to dedicate time to body weight training sessions to maintain mobility and regain atrophied muscles… It eats away at me SO MUCH.

There’s a reason I am at a bagel place for my cheat day. I need to be able to eat a proper bagel more then every three to four months. I am a Jewish girl. OKAY. We live on this stuff. It is part of our culture. There is even a Yiddish saying about lacking bagels, “Lign in drerd un bakn beygl!” It directly means, May you lie in the ground and bake bagels… In other words, you should burn in hell and be depraved of bagels you are being forced to create. Bagels are serious man….

So can you at least not embarrass me at our bagel joint? Our last name even means bagel…..It should be sacred ground.

I.L. Knight

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Tradition – Fiddler On The Roof

Becoming Squirrely :

Squirrely – “The act of becoming a dead looking individual, but having a mind that is equivalent to spastic squirrel videos due to lack of sleep/exhaustion/moments of unfortunate life pain- I.L. Knight”

So, yea. I fucking hate squirrels. However, after pulling two all nighters back to back, writing a response paper for the first time since I’ve been back to school. having to be productive with a mid term review AND a group presentation film project I have gone a little insane.

I kind of forgot how hard it is to reset yourself back to any sense of normalcy post these sort of things. Currently, I feel the pain of the bones as I agitated a flare up and am somehow watching Winx Club.

My first midterm is tomorrow and I am so unprepared.

I.L. Knight

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Wake Up Little Susie – Everly Brothers

Les Misérables :

I think I was sort of lucky. G-d was giving me a sign I need to put more effort into my social life again. A friend I met a first year, who I haven’t talked in like three years, messaged me to tell me she had an extra Les Miserables ticket and would love to catch up. If that ain’t a sign for something I don’t know. So it was fun. Let’s give a crack of review.

Here are the entire list off the cuff nicknames I have for the first half:

Why You Gotta Mashup

25 sec A Song A Thon

Rush Rush Baby

Character Ain’t Singing That Now

Glee Version

I Am Seriously Not Getting Invested

A Spin On A Classic Ain’t Always Great

We Know Les Mis Is Long. Ain’t Need To Be Short

To put it shortly, as much as it is impossible to do bad at Les Miserables there version stopped me from getting invested in it the way I should. That being said… The second half was completely different. No longer were they shortening songs and trying to only sing parts of songs. We got the full songs. The epic moments of a failed revolution and love…I could finally start getting invested again.

To absolute delight I got my On My Own Moment. It was all I was waiting for the entire night. It has been my favorite song since I was a kid (tied with God Help The Outcast of course). It was also a song I had forbade myself to sing in three years, because of my last memory attached to it. It was an ironically scenic night, a beautiful black lake, a nice open bench, a clear view of a sere starry sky, and the perfect amount of breeze when I heard the song. No matter how bad my voice was I just had to sing. There was pain. A new meaning of the song attached to a very unhealthy love. It made me committed to not have that memory when I left for college. I was after all committed to not having anymore attachments. It was wonderful. Thank you to the talented cast.

Also, thank you to production. You allowed me to become absorbed enough to cry my eyes out at the enviable tear rendering, heart piercing moment, of the death of our beloved Jean Valjean in the church. I was never that big of a fan of Cosette (let’s be real I wanted Eponine to not die and find love, because her life turned out much worse than Cosette’s). However, you have to love that moment. The way the story comes to fruition and finds it denouement. It made me cry for something wonderful for once.

I think the best part of this play came after though. As a rare Montreal night became something even more special. The nice silence of a late night in the city. The rare moment where the snow in Montreal is high enough and clean enough to sparkle as if embedded with crystals. The perfect cold breeze to uplift you as you walk the three blocks home. The conclusion of walking with a song you haven’t heard in three years. There was the perfect serenity to On My Own. There was no recall of sadness or an attachment. It was just a warmth I had when I first listened to the song.

I think tonight was wonderful. It was like someone pressed a refresh button on me and said you know what you can be productive and learn.

This is the power of plays. Of Les Miserables.

I.L. Knight

eponine

On My Own – Lea Solanga

On My Own – Movie Version

Yesterday Was About Promises :

I think I may have a problem. I was never very good at setting goals, so I avoided making them. Kept my head down and said I had to follow the path chosen for me. Then all of a sudden I became a person that made too many of them. I don’t really know where I am looking as I make them… Just that there seems to be so many.

Yesterday I really hit on quite a few. I was lucky in that the morning class to hell I had was cancelled. This meant I didn’t have to leave early or miss a class to get to my big promise to myself: Follow through with registering with the OSD (Office of Student Disabilities). I was going to keep my promise and actively fight against my remaining sin of pride and my anxieties. I was going to accept that people needed help and that wasn’t wrong or bad. It didn’t matter about silly things I remembered from being a kid. That it was wrong to expect a kid to be able to sit in class with a hundred and four degree fever, not get caught and be sent to the nurse’s office, to let it affect me in a way that would require my parents knowing of this, all for the sake of the paper official pride of our family’s last name. These silly little things I carry with me and allowed to shape me.

The thing is I didn’t quite realize I was incapable of realizing how much it would hurt to be there in that office. From the second I notified the front desk I was here for my appointment a panic attack made an intense stabbing pain in my chest. I had my eyes trained on the floor as I waited there for my turn. I had chosen to get there 20 minutes early in case of fear of being late, so let’s just say my head had been hanging low for quite awhile.

The first problem, or fear of my promises, was when I looked up for the first time. One of the counselors was in a wheel chair, had limited range of movement and a slight speech impediment. And he was happy. Very happy. Smiling so widely one could think he was on drugs to be that positive. I mean McGill is equally hellish on staff. I don’t think I’ve ever been that happy in my life. Certainly, I wasn’t really happy since all of this began. but he was, so goddamn happy. I wasn’t like him. Nothing kept me in a chair everyday, made my occasional slur that bad, or was a constant mobility challenge. That was the first sharp needle to my chest.

The next one came when I met my counselor. She was a beautiful woman who could literally be the picture example of chipper in the dictionary; even started the meeting with an adorably unfunny joke. When I met her I was thankful about one thing, one skill I had: I was never someone to stare. I had grown up around a lot of crazy. I had seen people do a lot of things to stare at. I had volunteered at a special Olympics and been someone who hadn’t ever looked at them like something damaged. I felt proud about that; like i had retained some sort of of a kindness among everything that made up me. And I didn’t stare. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was this beautifully woman was marked with a scar from her mouth to her chin. An obvious speech impediment from the moment she opened her mouth. Yet, she was the pictorial example of chipper.

I sat there explaining to her that I had no idea what I was supposed to say or what I was supposed to ask for. She smiled as she took my medical records for me and read through them. The first things she came up with was a general outline of things people usually requested for similar issues. Me, in all my awkward forced type a pride, immediately responded to her I probably wouldn’t need most of those things. I could get to my class on the hill if I left an hour early. I had teachers who were willing to work with me, and had two to three breaks to help with staying focused in class. I could manage my sleep and focus issues well enough with ritalin and ZzzQuil. Then I went silent at the sight of  a lack of pity. She was only smiling more as she took my hand. “A lot of the students who walk through this door are recently diagnosed and in a state of confusion about what they’ll need and how to handle it. You have what we call an invisible illness. It’s something that can be hard to understand sometimes.” My anxiety was the only thing that kept me from breaking down into tears…And my unconscious decision to pretend I didn’t know what an invisible illness was.

The truth was since I walked in there all I did was feel ashamed. First, I was ashamed about needing help. I wasn’t supposed to have to change my life or do things differently. Then I felt ashamed for needing such help when the people around me seemed to need it more and were so happy. Ever since I’ve had this moment in my life I’ve finally come to the point of pitying myself again. Having to recognize all these things about yourself hurts. I was weak, damaged, unfit to move as expected, full of mental health issues both inherited and nurtured, fat because of bad decisions when in decline, alone because of an an inability to connect properly with people or the willingness to even try. I was me, and I hated that.

I remember walking home from the meeting in a haze. Everything seemed to swirl around me. My eyes were stinging and my fingers and knees hurt. I even wondered if the pain in my chest would cause a heart attack. Wondered if finally I would go to sleep and simply just not wake up. Would I be able to find some sort of relief in this… I don’t even remember arriving back into my apartment.

The next thing I remembered was it suddenly being nine at night. Nothing accomplished. Nothing done. I was still in the nicer clothes I had put on for my meeting. The day before I had promised myself I would be productive since I had a lucky day off. I clearly hadn’t been productive. I clear hadn’t really been anything. The realization scared me more then anything. Not only had I been so okay with not achieving a minor goal of trying to be productive, but I was having a weird relationship with time. It was either moving agonizingly slow, or moving in a way I wasn’t even aware of, It made me so scared.

Not only was my brain no longer working the same. Not only couldn’t I remember things the way I used too, connect dots the way I used to, not have my head feel like it was splitting open, or be able to picture things so clearly in my head it was like a scene matched with perfect words. Now, I couldn’t even recognize time properly. Was I more depressed then I realize? More crazily scattered? More hyper focused? More anxious? More of anything? Maybe I was getting worse with age like my family dead. There were so many crazies in my family. So many with a mental decline. Would I be able to remember anything of the languages I learned at this point? Everything felt like it was slipping away from me. Understanding and memory the most. I couldn’t remember half of the things I used to, and the things remaining were mostly things that hurt. What a duechy selectiveness my brain was having.

I don’t know what I am becoming, or what I will become. I don’t know how to ask for help. Certainly, I don’t even know how to accept the help offered to me when there exists someone who might understand what it like for hell to be invisible. The more things I don’t know are increasing every day.

I think there exists a lot of promises I’ve made to myself that I haven’t been able to keep. Yet, more and more are being made and asking for resolution. I don’t think they will get that resolution. I don’t think I am capable of giving it.

I think I am falling. Deeper and Deeper. Faster and Faster. There is no end in sight, but a certainty that when I fall it will be painful, excruciating and then finally nothing.

I.L. Knight

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Mighty Long Fall – ONE OK ROCK