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Music is a good coping mechanism. It drowns out the rest of my senses. The louder and angrier, the better.
“We’re all cowards, Kade. Running scared from our pasts, avoiding the inevitable. It always finds its way back to us in the end.”
That’s what mental illness does to you. It gets in your head and makes the line between life and death seem so small, you’re no longer afraid to cross it.
The trick is confidence. You have to show them you’re serious and not to be messed with. Reputations are earned, not given.
That’s the thing about dying. Those who battle hardest against it, they’re afraid of what they’ll leave behind. But when you have nothing, nobody to grieve you or notice the chasm you leave behind in the world, there’s nothing terrifying about death. In the end, it’s more appealing than living.
Good riddance to shitty parents.”
Shit happens. Parents only disappoint. Us kids are always left to pick up the pieces.
“You only get compliance if you keep the masses happy with treats. Don’t be fooled by it.”
Have you ever felt like a stranger in your own life? People talk to you, call your name … but none of it feels real. You’re just trapped behind glass watching your life simply pass by, one disaster at a time.
We’re all ruled by fear. It’s a dark, amorphous cloud that touches every life one way or another.
We’re like two broken shards of glass, smashed and scattered beyond repair. As the pieces mingle together, you can’t tell which bit came from where. It doesn’t even matter anymore. You just have a worthless mess, but it’s still irreplaceable.
Do you ever stop to think about how the past defines you? Most people don’t. They just shake it off and move on. I’ve never been like that. I can remember every single event that led me right here. Blow by blow, slowly chipping away at my sanity, gradually adding to the expanding mosaic of my fragile mind. Every memory, twisted secret and filthy sin.
Pain is supposed to scare you. It’s a survival instinct that’s screaming at you to run for your life and never look back. But it has the opposite effect on me. I want to hurt. Break. Bleed. I like the sharp burn of suffering when I drag my razor blade
over my veins, over and over again. Without pain, I’m dead already.
The bond between parent and child is an odd thing. They have the power to tear us down inch by excruciating inch; abuse us, break us, traumatise us until nothing but broken pieces remain.
