so damn sugar

i fall super behind i

take a hundred breaths 

gotta be kind 

to my poor sodden 

mind. battle the ants 4 

sugar i won't say sorry 

for being damn

sweet 

#katyamills

mental. quattro (plus video)

He was showing me unconditional positive regard.
I was telling him all the ways and places I was scarred.
He was chewing on the fat of my tales.
I was eating all my fingernails.
He was redirecting me like a train conductor.
I saw red and charged like a bull.
He was charging me through the teeth.
Paid in full.

I was waxing poetic.
His thoughts told him I was pathetic.
I gussied up to him like a whore.
He had his back to the door.
I blasted him for offering me Prozac.
He looked at me like I was crazy.
Called me a fucking throwback.
Or was it the voices in my head?

I cut my wrists and put them in his face.
He let me bleed out. Unconditionally.
I paid to have his carpet cleaned.
To keep my credit clean.
He was showing me unconditional positive regard.

I asked for a cup of tea.
He fifty-one fiftied me.

I ran away before the sedation.
Into the flickering movie
of guided imagery.

He was golden showering me
with unconditional positive regard.
I had clearly drawn up my knees,
drawn up my guard.

He drew checks off my back account.
I drew pictures of infinity.
He rented Girl, Interrupted.
Then handled me with
more or less
care.

I was embryonic again.
Statuesque.
He wore a Buddha smile on his face.
I was unfashionably broke
and stressed.
Developmentally-challenged.
Locked up in chemical
arrest.

He poisoned me with
unconditional
positive
regard.

wild. vast disinterest

wild. vast disinterest
Posted on October 22, 2014 by KatYa


Yes i tire
of a selfish
liar

i wanna set something
afire and do

these words
blaze out
the woods
where you
lost me

left me
to clarify
my grave
indifference

i pick the line between us
and raze your toxic
charming

asserting my
wild
vast
disinterest

yes…
it is alarming

K READS MENTAL X 3

So i was rolling with this sweet-as-saccharine, pretty young latin thang, on an real affective high, joining in the bipolar unilateral uncompromised brilliance of the new day, treading on an adidas insole grip, feeling like a princess for a change, when suddenly she stopped and turned me around to look at this ugly street scene. She said something about getting a french roast at one of those less than average corporate coffee outfits, maybe Seattle's Beast or Starfux or something. I really cannot pay attention, on purpose.

Hey hey hey hey now! I said, making mad circles with the palms of my hands facing her, like I was painting a Starry Night again. What did you say?

She told me again with great controlled precision, almost irritable-like. 

Were she not so saccharine-sticky-sweet like, with her unfrosted platinum blonde wig all situated like real hair on her dome, I would have been audi 5000. I gave her my full attention, and my pressure cooker started heating up a bit. Not a good feelingstate for my mental. I tried to channel it out of my shoulders with a roll and a couple of shrugs. But it got locked up, in between the blades, and started bouncing around in there, my chi, like a video game-gone-beserk. Damn. I wanted to slap her already, but it was just a thought.

So we went anyway, and she got her gingerbread shot or whatever, and I sat impatiently on the cold, dry, laminated redwood, waiting. I always wondered how I got into this kinda mess. Some double-blind study was I. Blinded first by her beauty, then by my own future idyllic daydream of what life could be in the presence of said beauty. Never once did my mental suggest sitting on a plank in Central Yuppie, California, while holier-than-thou got a gingerbread.

my friends and me (we tried)

my friends
come out
these places
come out
the psych ward
in 72 hours

or more

these places
my friends

and i
i go
in hiding

my cats
Mousey and
Boo Boo
too

i learn
to love
again

again
these cats
they teach
me

my god
goddess!
dear god!
divine

i pray
i go 2
hiding

the world
the earth
so tough
so hard
she

sucks away
my breath
sometimes

my friends
lose means
my friends
to ends

we come from
psych ward
planets

dreams smashed
eyes of
visions

we tried

and i
i go
in hiding

Mental -- the deuce

I had seen about a dozen therapists in twice as many years. They all knew what was wrong with me, and it was different every time. I guess that's what people mean when they say people change. Of course, people usually said that about someone else, not me. I would be wondering why a boy did not want to go out with me anymore? People change. Or why my best friend stopped talking to me when she went off to college, and I was still working graveyard at the White Hen? People change.

So maybe those boys and my best friend were just mental like I was. That's what I liked to tell myself. When I dissociated, I made up all sorts of personalities to keep the rumours alive. The dominatrix would reassure me she had been routinely light spanking my best friend over the holidays, because my best friend was submissive. People change. The angry feminist would tell me how my best friend got married, and that she may as well have had a lobotomy. People change. The priest who took confession from the first guy I fell in love with me, confided in me what he heard in the confessional; the guy was into guys. People change. 

Honestly, I am not sure I believed that people change. I had only to consider myself. My diagnosis always changed, but I stayed that same. So you could argue it was not really me who was changing. Just the labels. A label is stuck to the outside of something, like a nametag, but it does not alter the underlying chemistry of the thing labelled. The mad scientist told me so. And he's never wrong. He performs all sorts of important experiments all the time, just to know stuff.

He spends half the night with me at White Hen, draining whipped cream gas into my lungs. He calls them whippets. Apparently they kill brain cells that should have been dead a long time ago. The kind of cells that made me think the bad thoughts, the same kind of thinking all sorts of minimum wage workers who are mental start to have, when they are working dead end jobs going mental. I'm not even going mental. I already am.

I think I am living proof that people never change. Tonight there's only one can of whipped cream left untapped, in the White Hen. The mad scientist prescribed it to me, to get well. To kill off all those thoughts of what I wanna do to those boys and my best friend, now that they no longer have an excuse for having ditched me the way they did.

Mental (sister piece)

The sister to this piece is @ kissilent.wordpress.com

I was talking to my therapist. It was a pretty chill converse. Almost like we were friends or something. I kinda started to think of her as my friend, until she diagnosed me crazy. I thought that was really rude, coming from a friend. I let her know. She told me she wasn't my friend. I started to cry. She called me tearful. I had about had it with the labels. But I did not blow up, because at least she was right. I asked her, will I ever get better? She said it was a process. That made me feel worse. I told her she was a rotten therapist. Her affect remained unchanged. I told her she had no feelings. I asked her how does it feel, not to be able to feel? She gave me that Buddha smile. Totally unphased. I was impressed by her robot. I shut up and started listening. I had eyeliner blend into my eye from the crying, and asked for a tissue. She told me get it yourself. Not to be mean, just because (as she had explained a hundred times before) that would be caretaking.

 I stumbled blind around the room for a tissue. I fell out the window. I didn't know it was open. I was wondering how the air-conditioning was so strong that day. Or how they could afford such a skillful window washer. Because the air was so cool, the glass so clear. Before the makeup fell into my cornea. I did not report any of that, because I was supposed to only report my symptoms. Leave all the clutter thoughts up in my attic. I mean head. Well, they came out all right. But not until I landed on my attic, or the ground came up to meet me, after I shook hands with the window. I still could not see. But at least I could think straight. Props to my therapist. Shout outs to the EMTs who came and kept all my blood from running down the sidewalk and away from me.