Stop telling me blindly how strong I am

I want to hurt things. I want to break them. I want them to look the way I feel. I want to see the destruction that is constantly occurring within me. I want it to be physical. I want it to be tangible. I want to be able to touch it. I want it to be real in places other than my head. I want it to be there for people to see. I want them to get it. I want them to understand. I want them to understand so they'll stop telling me blindly how strong I am.

You can't judge my "strength" on the joke I turn my life into.

That is weakness. A sure sign that I can't deal with the things that are happening. My defence is to laugh. That's woeful, disgraceful. I'm not armed with anything. Just humour. What is that? That won't solve anything, not by a long shot. All that humour is doing is ensuring that I survive. All that humour does not give a shit either way how I come out of the things that insist upon happening to me. I just have to survive.

And that's not okay. I don't want to just survive. I want to live. Is that so much to ask, that I get a chance to really live? To be happy and feel joy. Not sit in my bed fearful of moving due to aching muscles and shot tendons. The strands of my hair stop coming out so excessively. I know this is your doing Roaccutane and you need to stop. I'll not be bullied by your medicinal rampage. The rash covering my limbs needs to leave. The exhaustion that depletes me and yet will not let me sleep needs to go and harass someone else.

For seventeen years I have been harassed constantly by things that are out of my control. And I am done. I am done having my life dictated by these things that are not me and yet are me. I can't find the lines between self and pain because it is so damn ingrained it might as well be me. How is that even fair? To be happy, and to be pain free. That is the real joke.

I don't know how to explain the things that are happening to me. They tumble out jumbled in factual description said with such sarcasm people listening can only laugh. I'm making the real unreal. How can that be? I insist that "if you don't laugh you cry" but I couldn't cry if I wanted to anyway. I only get mad. I get really mad. I get snappy and hurtful and the hate exudes from each movement. My other great state is "normality". The blissful pretence of control, of happiness, of a pain free existence. But it is only a pretence of things I dearly wish I was in possession of.

Things that continue to elude me, and I'm sure will continue to do so for the remainder of my life. That is how my script has been written after all. No simplicity, no joy, just trauma, one after the other until I don't know what to do, who to trust, how to explain, when to feel, why comfort does nothing.

I want it to end. It's madness this internal chaos. It's mad at me. I'm mad at everyone else. Everyone else gets mad at me because I'm mad at them for no good reason and suddenly I'm in the centre of this madness and I don't even know what I'm doing.

I'm getting panicky, that much is evident in my writing. Panic comes with helplessness. Helplessness is what I have. All I have is disjointed thoughts. Disjointed thoughts that have dictated this blog.

Yes, my hair is coming out excessively, I notice it more and more every day. Just over two months to go. Three if you count the month of grace Roaccutane requires to leave my body completely.

Yes, people don't understand. And how can they? Everything that happens to me should be in a soap opera or in a bad novel. Writers could not make better fiction if they tried. And how do you then explain to someone who doesn't understand what you don't understand yourself?

You don't.

That's the point. You just don't. You use as few words at possible, you shield the lack of knowledge in sarcasm and shit, the world is none the wiser and you look like Iron Man. Infallible. A genius. The way you should be.

- Sky