Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > Cryptic Diary
Cryptic Diary
3 reviewsWhat happens when Mikey finds a notebook, the entries becoming more and more depressing, showcasing a mental breakdown?
0Unrated
This originally started out as something that I had written down one day just on a whim... Completely describes what I was feeling. Then I decided I might as well post it on here for the hell of it. If you don't like it, don't bother flaming me, I'll just send Nnoitra to terrorize you. 7 ft tall spoons with weed whackers FTW!
What if the smallest things have the most profound effects on someone? Like the butterfly effect. Maybe you've heard of it. Right? You know, where they say that on this side of the world a butterfly flaps it's wings, and on the other side of the world a tsunami or some shit happens.Well whatever it is, I wanna find out who or what the hell in China or maybe Japan did whatever the hell it was to make half this shit happen.
It's like this all the time. The smallest things set me off these days, and it scares me. If you look at me at the wrong time, or say something wrong, or even just not say anything at all, I explode. Well actually, I implode. I take it out on myself, fuck the consequences.
I just sit there and hack at my arm or maybe my leg, and I don't give a fuck about the amount of blood I lose. I do almost anything to get my fix. It's led to me stabbing myself in the arm with a pen in the middle of class before. Nobody noticed shit, not even the teacher. I don't care that I've been hospitalized almost a half dozen times for this.
Maybe that's the reason I do it so often, because to be honest I realized I never really had such a big problem before they started sending me to the hospital. I used to just leave little tiny scratches here and there. Now I take huge chunks of skin and meat out of the side of my leg. In fact, I had actually stopped for several months before they decided to send me away for the first time. I guess having stopped and then given that stressor, and all those pills that fucked me up just stressed me out to the point that I'm the monster I am now.
All I know is that because of the events of the past year or two, I'm probably never going to land that job in the FBI I've wanted for years. I mightn't get any job, besides self-employed, if that, because of the records of me being hospitalized, with all this 'mental unstability' and 'depression' that they like to tag me with. On that note, I mightn't even get into college either, because my grades started going to hell with being in the hospital so much. I've missed a week easily each time, and then all the therapist and doctor appointments, I was out of school more than I was in it, always having to leave early for one appointment or another...
I was even told to my face by some bitchy lady that I would never get into college or a highschool that needed an interview, or a job, because of all the scars I have. That just fucking crushed me right there. And as far as my personal life goes, everyone's left because of this. Everyone. At the rate I'm going, it's never going to get fixed, and I'm probably never going to meet anyone worthwhile, who can see beyond the scars and horrible history.
I mean come on, I look like a fuckin' rag doll! Ever seen Sally from Nightmare Before Christmas? That's pretty much me right there. Covered in a fuckload of scars instead of stitches, but what the hell? I think that's why everyone finally left. Everyone finally figured out just how disgusting and worthless and useless I truly am. I knew that one day this would happen, but even knowing in advance doesn't stop it from hurting me.
Now, I have hell at school to deal with, and I have hell to come home to and put up with. I'm getting so sick of it I'm at the point of just taking up my old friend the knife for the last time, and just fucking stabbing myself or some shit... My own family treats me life shit over it. Not once do they ask me what the hell is wrong, why I do it, all they do is fucking insult and accuse. All they seem to want to do is shove fucking pills down my throat. At the rate it's going, they're just breaking me down mentally until there's not going to be anything left of me.
I realize I'm already turning into a psychopath. I can't really feel anything much anymore. And the other night, I was watching this horror movie. Really gory, but I can't remember the name of it. But the thing that bothered me, was that when I saw the killer tracking down the people and killing them, I was laughing. Not because it was one of those crappy horror/humor movies, like Zombieland or some shit, and not because what the killer or victims was doing was hilarious. Just because I found it funny that he was killing them. I scared myself that night. But to be honest, I think it's better off this way, no more feelings, so I can never be hurt by anyone again.
I think it was my family's intention of turning me into a psychopath or maybe even a killer, to have me locked away the rest of my life. And they're doing a damn good job about it. I guess that they should just be happy that I'm the kind to let people live so they suffer longer.
Right now I just need my fucking painkillers.... This time 2 months ago, my friends used to be it. Every time I got insulted and cursed at and threathened at home, they were the ones I used to turn to. I didn't have to tell them what was going on all the time. I would just tell them something like "Tell me what happened with you this weekend." or "Soviet Russia Jokes. Now." or just sit there and listen to them talking about the newest episode of whichever Anime they were watching right then.
I don't think that they actually realized how much they used to cheer me up. And to think that I used to care about them enough to actually want to stop. Don't get me wrong, I still care about them more than you could know, even if they hate me now. But the thing is, even when I tried to show them that I hadn't cut in months, they all told me the same thing. That it was too late now, that they'd given up on me.
When he had told me that my scars broke his heart, even though he didn't know me when I did them, I tried my hardest to stop. To be honest, that was the only time I actually had wanted to stop ever in my life. I had tried my hardest, and failed once again, because I'm too weak. Welcome to my fucked life.
Right here is where my own personal shit ends. Don't worry, I'm not suicidal...or homicidal for that point. IF you're wondering about the whole 'stab myself' thing up above, this was written like 3 or 4 months ago so it's no longer true. Start the made-for-Ficwad part
The spidery writing crossed the page of the notebook that Mikey held. The felt tip pen used to write it was nearly printing through the pages. The first entry was shocking enough, prompting the boy to feel a wave of pity for the anonymous writer. And to think that he had only found it an hour before, in a guitar bag that he'd bought from a thrift store. It was a bargain, he had thought. He hadn't been able to find any bass guitar bags for cheap, and since Gerard's band was going to go on stage, and he was with them, he couldn't walk around with his bass in his hand all the time. But when he had found the perfect bag, without breaking the bank, he hadn't counted on this being in there. Even though he didn't know who wrote it, he couldn't help but feel they didn't deserve this kind of life. He wanted to help them, even if it turned out in the end the person that wrote this was his sworn enemy.
What if the smallest things have the most profound effects on someone? Like the butterfly effect. Maybe you've heard of it. Right? You know, where they say that on this side of the world a butterfly flaps it's wings, and on the other side of the world a tsunami or some shit happens.Well whatever it is, I wanna find out who or what the hell in China or maybe Japan did whatever the hell it was to make half this shit happen.
It's like this all the time. The smallest things set me off these days, and it scares me. If you look at me at the wrong time, or say something wrong, or even just not say anything at all, I explode. Well actually, I implode. I take it out on myself, fuck the consequences.
I just sit there and hack at my arm or maybe my leg, and I don't give a fuck about the amount of blood I lose. I do almost anything to get my fix. It's led to me stabbing myself in the arm with a pen in the middle of class before. Nobody noticed shit, not even the teacher. I don't care that I've been hospitalized almost a half dozen times for this.
Maybe that's the reason I do it so often, because to be honest I realized I never really had such a big problem before they started sending me to the hospital. I used to just leave little tiny scratches here and there. Now I take huge chunks of skin and meat out of the side of my leg. In fact, I had actually stopped for several months before they decided to send me away for the first time. I guess having stopped and then given that stressor, and all those pills that fucked me up just stressed me out to the point that I'm the monster I am now.
All I know is that because of the events of the past year or two, I'm probably never going to land that job in the FBI I've wanted for years. I mightn't get any job, besides self-employed, if that, because of the records of me being hospitalized, with all this 'mental unstability' and 'depression' that they like to tag me with. On that note, I mightn't even get into college either, because my grades started going to hell with being in the hospital so much. I've missed a week easily each time, and then all the therapist and doctor appointments, I was out of school more than I was in it, always having to leave early for one appointment or another...
I was even told to my face by some bitchy lady that I would never get into college or a highschool that needed an interview, or a job, because of all the scars I have. That just fucking crushed me right there. And as far as my personal life goes, everyone's left because of this. Everyone. At the rate I'm going, it's never going to get fixed, and I'm probably never going to meet anyone worthwhile, who can see beyond the scars and horrible history.
I mean come on, I look like a fuckin' rag doll! Ever seen Sally from Nightmare Before Christmas? That's pretty much me right there. Covered in a fuckload of scars instead of stitches, but what the hell? I think that's why everyone finally left. Everyone finally figured out just how disgusting and worthless and useless I truly am. I knew that one day this would happen, but even knowing in advance doesn't stop it from hurting me.
Now, I have hell at school to deal with, and I have hell to come home to and put up with. I'm getting so sick of it I'm at the point of just taking up my old friend the knife for the last time, and just fucking stabbing myself or some shit... My own family treats me life shit over it. Not once do they ask me what the hell is wrong, why I do it, all they do is fucking insult and accuse. All they seem to want to do is shove fucking pills down my throat. At the rate it's going, they're just breaking me down mentally until there's not going to be anything left of me.
I realize I'm already turning into a psychopath. I can't really feel anything much anymore. And the other night, I was watching this horror movie. Really gory, but I can't remember the name of it. But the thing that bothered me, was that when I saw the killer tracking down the people and killing them, I was laughing. Not because it was one of those crappy horror/humor movies, like Zombieland or some shit, and not because what the killer or victims was doing was hilarious. Just because I found it funny that he was killing them. I scared myself that night. But to be honest, I think it's better off this way, no more feelings, so I can never be hurt by anyone again.
I think it was my family's intention of turning me into a psychopath or maybe even a killer, to have me locked away the rest of my life. And they're doing a damn good job about it. I guess that they should just be happy that I'm the kind to let people live so they suffer longer.
Right now I just need my fucking painkillers.... This time 2 months ago, my friends used to be it. Every time I got insulted and cursed at and threathened at home, they were the ones I used to turn to. I didn't have to tell them what was going on all the time. I would just tell them something like "Tell me what happened with you this weekend." or "Soviet Russia Jokes. Now." or just sit there and listen to them talking about the newest episode of whichever Anime they were watching right then.
I don't think that they actually realized how much they used to cheer me up. And to think that I used to care about them enough to actually want to stop. Don't get me wrong, I still care about them more than you could know, even if they hate me now. But the thing is, even when I tried to show them that I hadn't cut in months, they all told me the same thing. That it was too late now, that they'd given up on me.
When he had told me that my scars broke his heart, even though he didn't know me when I did them, I tried my hardest to stop. To be honest, that was the only time I actually had wanted to stop ever in my life. I had tried my hardest, and failed once again, because I'm too weak. Welcome to my fucked life.
Right here is where my own personal shit ends. Don't worry, I'm not suicidal...or homicidal for that point. IF you're wondering about the whole 'stab myself' thing up above, this was written like 3 or 4 months ago so it's no longer true. Start the made-for-Ficwad part
The spidery writing crossed the page of the notebook that Mikey held. The felt tip pen used to write it was nearly printing through the pages. The first entry was shocking enough, prompting the boy to feel a wave of pity for the anonymous writer. And to think that he had only found it an hour before, in a guitar bag that he'd bought from a thrift store. It was a bargain, he had thought. He hadn't been able to find any bass guitar bags for cheap, and since Gerard's band was going to go on stage, and he was with them, he couldn't walk around with his bass in his hand all the time. But when he had found the perfect bag, without breaking the bank, he hadn't counted on this being in there. Even though he didn't know who wrote it, he couldn't help but feel they didn't deserve this kind of life. He wanted to help them, even if it turned out in the end the person that wrote this was his sworn enemy.
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