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Neil Hilborn - “The Future” (NPS 2013)

The worst thing about being naked and then being hit by a car is that road rash is a problem for skin.  

Why was I naked in the middle of the road at noon? I’m glad you asked, imaginary other half of this conversation! I have no idea. Some characteristics of bipolar disorder include dissociation, hallucinations, and fugue states, so sometimes, I wake up in places I didn’t go to sleep. 

Has this ever been a problem? My, you are inquisitive, imaginary conversation partner! And also a bad listener. See aforementioned attempt to befriend a windshield. 

So there I am, nude, rolling on the hood of a car screaming about the government conspiracy to take away my feet. Not my real feet, just my brain feet. 
I’m about six inches from the concrete when I realize, in slow motion: like the exact opposite of a bank robbery, this… is not how I imagined my life would turn out. 

When I was young, I broke both of my ankles because I was sure a cape would enable me to fly. My parents attributed this to my strong imagination. When I did this last year, my therapist called it a delusion. I fail to see the difference. 

Also, I really can fly and see the future and make people leave coffee shops with my mind 43% of the time. The point is, here is a list of things my brain has told me to do: join a cult, start a cult, become a cabinet maker, kill myself (so, in essence, become a cabinet maker), break into and then paint other peoples’ houses, have sex with literally everyone who reminds me of my mother, fight people who are much… fightier than me, like the cops (so, in essence, kill myself). 

I think a lot about killing myself, not like a point on a map, but rather like a glowing exit sign at a show that’s never been quite bad enough to make me want to leave. See, when I’m up I don’t kill myself because holy shit! there’s so much left to do! And when I’m down, I don’t kill myself because then the sadness would be over and the sadness is the old paint under the new. I’d still be me without it, but I’d be so boring! 

When they first told me I had bipolar disorder, I was somehow still surprised like, “You mean not everyone sees demons and feels as though they are covered in insects several times a day?” As it turns out, seeing and feeling things that aren’t technically there is called “disordered cognitive functioning”.  I call it “having a fucking superpower”. Sometimes, I see people as colors. This guy right here (gestures to man in audience) is purple, which means he just got a promotion or a blow job. A blowmotion, if you will. 

Y’all, sometimes I really can see the future. The future, it looks like a child in a cape. The future looks like gravity. Everyone just wants to be a part of someone else. The future is a small town we’re all gonna move to someday. I saw the future. I did, and in it, I was alive. 

My god, I was alive.

I’ve began to write something 7 different ways now and I can’t put anything together in even the slightest bit poetic way because what I’m feeling is not poetic. What I’m feeling is not easily said in a manner of excellence. Every time you refuse to except that my actions are reactions to everything you say and do, every time you refuse to actually work at a relationship, every time you pretend on the surface like you want to be a good-even just an alright- father; it hurts. And there is nothing poetic about that. It just hurts. I haven’t wanted You as a father for a long time, but wanting a father who wants to be a father is something the little girl inside of me will never let go. And it hurts.

1.) If you are going to commit suicide, do not tremble as your shaky hand picks up your weapon of choice. Do not cry.
2.) Before you perform the action, you are going to be faced with memories, and thoughts of people and feelings and its going to hurt. Here is an example for you “As your trembling hand picks up the blade you are faced with memories of everything, suddenly everything hits you instantly like cold water. You realize, once you die there’s no redo, no turning back. Your mother’s hugs are no longer be just a stride away, you won’t be able to listen to your favorite song again, you won’t be able to go outside and just breathe. You wont be able to, you can’t really breathe when you’re dead.”
3.) If you complete the action here is the aftermath.
Your mother, or father, or sister, or brother, or girlfriend, or boyfriend, or husband, or wife, or your child walks in and sees you. Real life suicide is not like the one in the movies, it is very rare that someone will barge in, in time and save you from yourself. When they see you lying there, they will cry, they will tremble more than you did, they’ll collapse from sobs and their chest will get this horrible pain, and then they will suddenly realize that you’re actually gone. When the news spreads around people you thought that didn’t care will. The people who pushed you around every single day will regret all of it instantly. Your best friend, they won’t be able to feel anymore, because the pain will push down on their chest like a boulder. Your mother will have lost her baby, and she will never be able to wrap her arms, that smell like roses and old perfume around you, she will never be able to smell your hair again, or tell you to clean your room, to say please and thank you, she will never be able to be out mother again. Your strict English teacher who would always give you a B instead of an A on all of your assignments, will wish that they hadn’t put so much stress on you. But, then there is going to be the few people who won’t feel as sorry. They will say horrible things like how you were weak, selfish. They will say that it’s like you just ripped your mother’s heart out of her chest, how you obviously never cared about anyone but yourself. Stop and think about what you’re doing and who it will affect. People care more than you will never know, because when you left the world, no one could feel at all, and you took a part of them with you. You took a part of your sister, you took a part of your brother, you took a part of your mom, you took a part of your dad, you even took a part of that douchebag that made me feel this way. Now, please, as your hands tremble, just think and softly put down the pills, or the blade, or the gun, or the rope, and call your mother.
A Poem about Suicide, Reilyn Aileen. (via last-bluess)
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