Journey to Insanity 2020

January

•
Things come into my head spontaneously at half past two in the morning,
So I write them down.
And although they may seem like utter shit,
They are the best comments I will ever make.
The wisest words,
The smartest decisions.
Because my brain is working harder than any other point,
And it's just thinking about this.
Not a single thing else.
Nothing at all else.
And this is pure,
The flow
The flow is pure like a spring,
There is nothing else affecting it it is pure.
It doesn't get purer than this.
These words that fall out of my mouth
Well, out of my fingertips
They are on the page before I've thought about them.
And before I know it I have reams of thoughts in a big long list,
And I think about the list.
And I think,
What is this all telling me?
What does all of this have in common?
And then I give up, because I'm thinking too hard.
Thinking too hard is a trigger,
The first domino in a line of many.
Once you've set one of you'll be overthinking it all.
Downwards spiral,
Down the rabbit hole.
Anyone reading this would think I was high,
Or at least drunk,
Or even tired.
But no,
I am none of those things,
I am just exhibiting my incredible, amazing, super duper brain. That everyone loves.
Because it won't be around for much longer.
~•~

~•~
I am that gender-nonconforming weirdo you had nightmares about.
Im not the third gender you say doesn't exist, I'm more a, one point five. On surveys I Tick the other box because, hi, I'm not a boy, or a girl. I wear clothes, any clothes , it doesn't matter which clothes , because I'm not constrained by societal norms, only by my own limits and boundaries. I don't give a fuck what you think I should look like, because your expectations are unrealistic. And I am really enjoying watching you torture yourself so you look like that, I think I will pass.
•
I lie here dreaming of all the happy children at Christmas opening their presents from under the tree with their happy functional wealthy family, and I ask myself, I ask, where did I go wrong? What did I do to deserve this? Then I remember. It's because Jesus loves me.
•
"You can't see the light at the end of the tunnel, because I forgot to turn it on, my bad, is that any better for you? Give it a minute to warm up, these old filaments take a while."

"ah shit there's a power cut"
•
Maybe there's a god above,
But all I ever learned from love,
Was it's FAKE
•
Two notes next to each other played at the same time
Are discordant
Two notes far away played at the same time
are harmonious
Two people next to each other at the same time
are awkward
But when they give themselves a little distance
They're broken
Because space fixes nothing
Except a claustrophobic me.
•

Im treading water
Im juggling knives
I'm  doing both at the same time

~•~

~•~
And I'm here again, in this stuffy room. I hate it because of all the happy memories. The memories that live on in treasured photographs hanging on the walls. The memories that live on in photo albums. The memories of a me, that my family see and think of who they wished I could be, but never was. And so I'm here alone with all of my anxiety surrounding me telling me that I've messed up that I'm a failure, and yet, and yet I still find that little bit of courage to pick out a cute skirt and put it on, to pick out a matching lipstick, because he, he is not me. He never was me, what I am has not been tainted by what society has told me to be because I am genuinely a representation of me. The only boundaries constraining me are those of my own individuality and fuck does it feel good to be free to be me.

And when I first told my family that this is genuinely who I am meant to me they sneered at me. This thing that had come over me this phase was not in the manual. There was no guidance from past experiences because I was something new, even though I knew I was genuine and there were so many others like me out there my parents couldn't bear the truth, and so just didn't try to find it.
The people I loved the most had lost all hope in me, plainly because I was being who I was born to be, like they had always told me to be. And that hurt. People blocking you out hurts. People telling you to pack your bags and leave because you were born with a cock but hate being called he hurts. People who tell you they are supportive, yet can't find the time to listen to you explain that you don't fit into society as a binary entity either a or b, that you don't fit together with your body, that neither of the gender stereotypes make you feel comfortable, happy. Those people hurt.

And you see it's not even that hard for me to explain my situation. My name is Charlie I am non-binary. That means I don't identify as Male or female, rather something else. Because identifying as Male or female isn't right for my brain. It makes me feel sick and wrong, because I am not a boy, or a girl. I am a fruity cocktail of the two. I am the other one. I tick the prefer not to say box on your questionnaire. You can call me they and them, because that's what I am, a human. And I understand that you might not understand, and no I'm not going to put it down to you being a closed minded religious right-wing prick, it's confusing, it even confuses me sometimes, but if there's something I'm sure about, it's that my name is Charlie and I am non binary.

I dream of surgeries, to alter my body, to make me more like them, less like the others. I lie to myself. I tell myself that the body I was born into is mine. Lying is painful. Some people tell me it's because I'm depressed and others because I'm autistic, and I'm pretty sure i am not who i am for either of those things, but even if you're right, even if I am, at least I am living as me. Not as who you want me to be. While you are there conforming to the stereotypes and repetitive mould of our modern society.
~•~

~•~
I lie still on the floor
Still as still can be
People look
People stare
But no.
I'm not moving
I'm not going anywhere because right now
Right now in this moment
There are so many things I want to be doing
So many things I want to indulge my mind in
But moving isn't one of them
And so I lie still
Still as still can be
And people question me
They think I'm dead
But then
What are they going to do if I am?
What can they do?
I'm dead, aren't I?
I lie silently laughing at their logic
I silently laugh at their short-lived worries because I know
I know that by this time tomorrow
They would have forgotten about me, the child lying still as still can be underneath the birch tree.
My eyes are closed but I can see people looking down at me
Like I'm an alien
Like I'm an exhibit
Like I have a do not touch sign plastered across my head
But no
Please
Touch me.
Feel me.
Smell me.
It's what reminds me I'm alive
And now I've forgotten again
Where I am, what I'm doing
Is it tomorrow yet?
I breathe
But I can't
My lungs don't move, no air comes out no air comes in and still
It's just me
Laughing at life
Silently
Under the birch tree
Looking at the stars where I want to be

In the middle of the motorway.
_•-<_