persecutory delusional disorder

You're out there to get me, aren't you?

"I really care about you"

you only say that when you appear to be inebriated, 

but you just want me to open up, don't you?

Waiting for me to spill my secrets, building a case against me, 

plotting every move along the way, 

down to the last second... 

Is it true that you hate me

because you don't know my secrets?

I know it maddens you

when you realize that all we talked about

in the past 126 minutes

is you. 

I know that day in the train 

when you told me you trusted me,

you realized how you finally let your guard down for someone. 

How could you let that happen?

Surely I must have used my dirty tricks

to pry your secrets out of you. 

Right?

So now you show me how you supposedly care about m

tell me things you say you never tell anyone

tell me that the littlest of my words have the power to upset you

tell me that you call me first and then others,

but really you're just waiting, aren't you?

Waiting for me to be vulnerable, 

waiting to capitalize on every feeling of mine, 

ready to pounce with your claws sharpened by my trust, 

planning to make me hurt. 

That will be your victory?

Knowing that someone who cared about you

only got hurt in the end, 

and instead of love, all you did was pretend?

Is this true?

Or am I the one who's scared of trust, 

of love?

Am I finding a reason to believe that

I am unlovable?

Maybe you truly love me. 

Maybe I am only delusional. 

do you ever sleep?

 Morning: the best part of the day my therapist said, “just get your mornings right”.

So the next day I wake up and step out of my bed. Hey, my therapist told me this could cure me. I see the sun rays shining through my eye lashes. That’s saying something because my eye lashes are short. I don’t have to force myself to drink water and get out because I want to see her proven right. Please be right.

I take my yoga mat and AirPods, I go downstairs and feel the gentle breeze displacing my bangs. My bangs that I had cut short and uneven in rage. My bangs that I had tried to force into the high bun. The high bun that was pulling on the strands of my hair, threatening to pull back my hairline.

I take a moment to appreciate the weather and the sky. Goddamn… Okay, done.

I start stretching. My PE teacher told me to hold every static stretch for 15 seconds, but I find myself too restless and impatient as I fly from one pose to another in mere seconds. Sorry.

Let’s exercise. Build those abs again. Grow that—as they say it—booty.

Three minutes into the workout… Oh, I see flashes. I see stars before my eyes. My head spins. I see blackness. But I can feel the sun on my skin. Why is it dark? Stop playing dumb. You skip meals all the time. You survive on chocolates and milk. What did you expect would happen? Sorry.

I promise I’ll do better now. I’ve taken the first step already, look, I’m out of the bed in the morning.

I feel something. Stop feeling.

As nighttime rolls in, I have crossed off no tasks from my list. I have only wasted time.

“Hey, do you want to drink tonight?”

Let’s drink tonight. So I drink. From drowning in sadness to drowning my sadness in vodka, there must be a beauty in this that my therapist can appreciate. Right?

But I find sadness alive and thriving at the bottom of my glass.