Jun. 21st, 2012

demacrux: (Default)
..Don't touch me.

This is what I said as I moved away from the others that saw. From those that said they were here to take care of me. They said I was sick. That I needed to get better. Couldn't they see that I didn't quite want to. Or..at least didn't see how I could. Besides, I wasn't doing as bad as the others. I had never attempted any kind of harm on myself. I just opted to lock myself away from those I would never connect with. Surely they know full well that there is a chasm between me..and well whoever tries to talk to me. A distance that can not be filled. How can anyone expect me to function in society this way. I can't. I simply can't. They reward the extrovert, the introvert has to adjust.. and me..that has no chance in hell of connecting with anyone. I have no clue. I-I..can't be bothered to try with anyone. And so I lock myself away. I had a room with food. A microwave,clothes. I could survive alone, huddled away from the situations that I would encounter on an everyday basis. But eventually, the food did run out. It did but I didn't much care. I was content with my computer, the only source of contact to the outside world.

But no..the others felt like they had to save me. From myself and so I was touched. Touch..something I am certainly not comfortable with. Why must you keep any kind of contact with me. Why? And now I lay here in this bed.. in this ward. Always keeping away from the others. I couldn't relate to them either. I couldn't try to describe how I ended up in here.. with them. I don't need to be here.

Stop touching me.

It's not helping. I feel no comfort from your embrace. I squirm and try to escape but no luck. You persist in holding me. I want to at least cry a bit but nothing results. My face remains fairly stoic if somewhat troubled. I continue to shrink in. Do you think I want to get better? What kind of better is there? You know as well as I do that there is no treatment for me. Hell, I don't think that there is all that much wrong with me. Give me a decent place to live ALONE and don't force me to interact with people face to face, and I'll be just fine. But no. You want to fix me. What is there to fix? You notice that my tone is getting a bit loud. A little hysterical. Anger and frustration filling every inch of body and the only way to express it is through writing.


Why can't I get you to understand. There's nothing wrong with me. Forget this, I'm going back to bed. I don't want anymore visitors. And for the last time, DON'T TOUCH ME.

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