Buckle up, motherfuckers. We're going to Phoebe's.
Why the fuck would punching myself in the face work, you ask.
Innocently, of course. No Problem. I'll let you know.
By punching my temples, slapping my cheeks (not my butt, I'll have you know), and tapping my sister's shoulder, along with a whole load of other 'trauma-rooted' problems, it physically distracts me from Phoebe mentally hinting at random shit.
That's the most broken down and simple answer I can give to you.
That's it. That's the reason.
I know, I know. Distraction? Really? And... yeah.
Who wants to spend hours and hours thinking about God knows what because of fucking random-ass chemicals going haywire upstairs. And for what?
It doesn't help me in any way.
I'm not benefited because I hit the back my head against a cement wall in my basement 9 times. I'm causing myself more trouble than helping my situation.
Phoebe still tells me my family won't be around tomorrow.
Phoebe still tells me about how I can get away with suicide.
Phoebe still tells me the latest news about all the germs that can destroy a kid. And guess what?
I'M STILL A FUCKING CHILD.
WOW LOOK AT THIS SHIT-POST OF GERMS THAT I CAN'T PRONOUNCE BUT I KNOW THAT IF I DON'T WASH MY HANDS FOR 15 MINUTES STRAIGHT AND ON THE DOT 'HEY GUESS WHO'S NOT SHOWING UP TO WORK ON HER WEEKEND SHIFT?'.
I don't even understand it myself and I go through it all the time.
Everyday.
Every. Single. Moment. That I'm not sleeping.
YOU ARE READING
Just One More Time
RandomWhere do I start? The beginning, I guess. I'm not Pheobe. Pheobe is what I have named my CDO (OCD, but it alphabetical order). And this is our interactive relationship with each other.
