My meds won’t be here for 6 to 9 more days.

I finally got the courage to call them in to the VA yesterday.

I’m terrified.

I won’t sleep tonight.
I didn’t sleep last night.
I slept a little the night before.

I only have a small lock on my bedroom door.

If I go to sleep they can get me before I can get to the poison.

I can’t let that happen.

I won’t let that happen.

Shades drawn

Lights out

A few more paranoid days in the dark.

I’m not going back in to an isolation cell.

My mind drifts back to some song lyrics about “my own prison”

That is effectively what I have created here in my bedroom.

They took so much from me.

I don’t even care about “fair”

For me there is basically 4 more years of survival

I’m fine with merely existing.

But who am I kidding, the end of probation isn’t the end of the fear.

If I go outside I am defenseless

African American people often talk about being targeted by the police.

I get it.

I understand.

At least I got to live without fear for my first 45 years of life.

With that being the case, maybe I don’t understand.

I guess I don’t get it after all. That wasn’t fair of me to say.

I also take meds to make the nightmares less terrifying.

Luckily I have some of those left, just in case I do end up falling asleep.

my dreams are often about corroders and bedrooms.

I wander the dimly lit hallways listening to my ex wife having s** just around the next corner, or in the next room.
She is always around the corner, making s***** sounds.

I know the building. It is a combination of 2 buildings that I have been to and 1 that I haven’t

But I am always lost. There is no exit, and there is always the s** sounds. and I can never find her. If I could find her maybe the dreams would stop.

I’m in my prison when I am awake, and in another one while I sleep.

I wish I could remember that darn song.

Sometimes I wonder if I really survived the suicide attempts.

Maybe this is just some weird version of Hell.

I don’t believe in Hell, but that doesn’t mean anything.

The way that I figure it is that the best way to make Hell real is to make it so I don’t believe in it.

That way the torment can be real.

Sometimes I think that most of the people in the world are really demons pretending to be human.

The rest of the people are lost souls like me.

I don’t believe in demons, but as I said before, that might be part of the illusion.

I would ask you, but how would I know that you, the reader, weren’t just lying to further enhance the illusion.

I wrote a poem. It isn’t really finished, but I’m going to include it with this post anyway.

The poem starts with the next sentence.

I stopped writing years ago.

My words were misinterpreted
and used against me.

I thought I was writing as therapy.

They looked at my words,
and took the metaphors literally.

words were always my friends,
putting them on paper was the only way
that I had to release the pressure in my head.

I never let myself feel the hurt,
that their absence brought me.

“They,”
the ones who persecuted me,
stole more than they could ever know.

I’m not even myself anymore.
I’m broken.

Time passes

Days,
sometimes separated by dark and light,
flash by as if created by an old time projector.

weeks and months,
almost unnoticed,
merge into a brackish soup,
leaving me wondering how old I am.

My mind,
extremely unbalanced,
shifts between marshmallow fog,
and 40 grit sandpaper.

This can’t be real.

Am i dreaming?

End of poem.

If you read this far, thank you.