One. Two. Three…

“One. Two. Three.” I started screaming at myself the number of tiles I saw on my parents’ kitchen floor. Those tiles were the absolute worst. Not only were the laminated stone tiles quite easy to count, I was able to jump from each to each. Bouncing to and from the same annoying pattern until I counted the number of tiles completely on the floor. But fuck, I would spend hours upon hours, counting my days away. Bouncing and bouncing the same annoying pattern until I heard the garage door startup.

That always meant my Mother was home. Home from the job she hates to replace with the life she hates. And quite frankly it was my fault. Not by my choice, but it didn’t make the guilt any less real. The pain of guilt was undeniably the most unimaginable stab to my heart.

And in this particular instance, I shouldn’t have listened to love. The harsh truth is love can be quite cruel to those who express just a little too much.

And I felt as if I needed to save my mother. I always want to save people, especially those that don’t want to save themselves. But that’s a problem for a different day.

I just wanted to help my Mother escape my adoptive Father, Tim. And I thought moving back into my parents’ house after I found Tim videotaping me, naked would help all of us escape.

Not for one second did I believe that my Mother wouldn’t have my back. In my manipulated brain, I always believed it was the only way to save us all. Moving back in and taking down the horrible creature called my father.

But I eventually allowed the denial to overtake, hence the counting of the tiles.

I couldn’t stand the world around me and would focus my brain on anything but my truth. My truth was my escape, however also my comfort. Even if that comfort was downright horrible for me, I couldn’t go on without my Mother or so it seemed.

So I bounced back and forth. “One. Two. Three. Four. Five.” And repeated this pattern for what seemed like ages. And after I grew bored of this occurrence, I decided living in a fantasy world would be that much better.

And yes I know, this is where the judgment begins. But fuck man, just if for one second if you would just sit your ass down, and actually take your head out of your ass, and actually listen. You would notice that I am presenting this to help others realize they aren’t alone.

And yes what I experience from time to time is not normal, but it’s real. And it happens. And there is nothing to be ashamed of. Because quite frankly it’s where all of my creativity stems from and for that I am quite thankful.

So this is where “my friends” entered my life. I lost every single damn friend I had. Some of this I believe is my karma. And well deserved karma. Even though I have a mental illness, it doesn’t mean I have to treat those around me with hate. And I was beyond hateful with my words. I knew exactly where to jab at the heart.

I was a girl who wanted to release the pain so desperately that I decided to do so to those closest to me. And I’ve done some unimaginable acts to some absolutely amazing people. And when I needed them the most, all of them turned their backs. For good reason.

So my imaginary friends came into play. And this has only happened this short time in my life. Never again have I ever let my voices enter my real world. Living in my thoughts is wild enough. Even if they scream at me desperately wanting to be released.

I always scream right back at them with all my might. “No fucking way!” No matter how many times I have to yell at my brain, I refuse. And it’s because of the occurrence I am about to tell you. So even though my whole concept of reality slowly faded, I am thankful it happened and I survived. I survived. So that means you can too.

So my friends. My friends changed very sporadically, so explaining this occurrence it happened in many different ways with many different people. And all of them never appeared, actually. I am also not a therapist nor a doctor, just a human trying to explain her truth to the world. If this is happening to you please reach out to those around you. Even me. Just talk.

“Fifty three. Fifty four. Oh hi there Brit?” I looked up and saw my brother. He was wearing a bright pink, long sleeve shirt, with khaki pants, and black dress-up shoes. I was so happy to see him. I felt so lost without him. All I wanted was my brother and to tell him how much I was sorry. So I looked up at him with my freckled face and smiled from ear to ear. “Hi, My brother I’ve been waiting to see you. I am so happy you’re here.”

He looked at me with his pale, blue eyes, tears bottling up, and just cried so unbelievably hard. No words. Just grasp of air in between the loud burst of tears.

I kept reaching out trying to touch him, but the air evaporated him each time I went to grab a piece of him. And all I heard was my brother screaming, “How could you do this to the family? How could you ruin my life once again? Do you always need attention?”

Now in my delusional eyes, I was following my brother around my parents’ house, cleaning up the mess he made. However, every action my brother “chose” to do was my own doing.

So while he was screaming out at me, throwing random objects around in disbelief. It was actually me. Me acting out.

However this whole time, I believed he was truly there. I lost all concept of reality. And that was just his first appearance…

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