Manifestation of My Emotional State
Manifestation of my Emotional State
Stay away from the demon in my head
He doesn't stop lurking until one of you is dead
It's always there, lurking. They call it a manifestation of my emotional state. I think that's a really fancy way of saying there's a demon inside me who tells me to cut. Except that the demon is me.
When I was fourteen I slit my wrists. Not because I wanted to die, but because I decided 'what the hell'. I cut wrong on purpose. But... God the pain felt so good. It was like a drug, I guess. Pain was my drug.
Instant addiction
No chance of conviction
Everyone already thought I was a freak anyway. Why would they comment on the now ever-present wristbands? The only people who would have commented were the teachers and they had already given me up as a lost cause.
For awhile, I only had three cuts. I even named them: Jesus, Satan, and God. I thought it was cool to cut God on Sunday, watch Satan heal, and reopen Jesus on Tuesday. But then there were too many to name.
I started wearing to wristbands on each arm and black socks so the blood wouldn't show. I rarely cut my feet, but when I did... My shoes reopening the cuts was like a controlled release pain pill just taking effect at random times.
I had a shitload of pills in my room. Various places. Pain pills, ecstacy, some anti-hestamine that fucks you up if you double the dose, caffeine pills, motion sickness capsules.
It was a rare day when I didn't show up for school on some kind of high.
Mike knew I was losing it. He just didn't know specifics. And he tried to help, really he did. But his voice was like a record playing in reverse and I couldn't understand.
Help? For me? Please. I'm fucking Billie Joe Armstrong. There is no help for me. I gave up on help a long time ago. The only help I'll get is the help I give myself and that's what he wanted me to fix.
It's like a kiss on the cheek
A kiss that tears open and bleeds
And then one day... I just got so fucking sick of it. I left the wristbands off and showed up to school tripping on too much of four different types of pills.
I never made it to first period. The second Mike saw the cuts he dragged me to his car, put it in drive, locked the doors, and just started driving.
And all the questions he yelled at me I answered with a laugh.
Why the fuck would you do that?
Why the fuck not? It feels good.
How long?
Two years. And you never knew. I keep secrets very well, don't I, Michael?
Why?
"I... I don't know."
He put on his turn signal and pulled into the 7-11 so fast my head hit the window. He slammed on the brakes and turned to look at me.
"You cut your wrist and show up high to school on God knows what. You fucking better have a different answer than 'I don't know'."
"I don't know why I started." It's the truth. I can't remember why I did it the first time. I only know why I keep doing it.
"You're getting help." Mike stated. "This is so fucked up, Billie Joe. Why didn't you just say something?"
Like what? 'Hey, Mike. I cut myself yesterday. '
"I don't know. I just didn't, okay?"
"No, it's not okay." he snapped. "You fucking cut yourself, Billie! There's nothing remotely close to 'okay' in this situation."
"Stop being such a drama queen."
That's when he slapped me. "You shut the fuck up and listen to me." he snarled. "Cutting yourself is not okay. You're sick, you're depressed. And if you don't get help, one day you're going to cut too deep."
I didn't say anything.
"Do you want to die, Billie Joe?" His voice is soft now.
I'm quiet for a moment, thinking about the question. Do I want to die or do I just want things to change? Do I want to end it or do I want it to be like it was before? Do I want to leave everyone behind to deal with another one of my messes?
"Billie?"
"No." I whisper. "I don't want to die."
As I come down off my high
I stumble in my mind
The only thing I'm tripping on are my feet.
He doesn't stop lurking until one of you is dead
It's always there, lurking. They call it a manifestation of my emotional state. I think that's a really fancy way of saying there's a demon inside me who tells me to cut. Except that the demon is me.
When I was fourteen I slit my wrists. Not because I wanted to die, but because I decided 'what the hell'. I cut wrong on purpose. But... God the pain felt so good. It was like a drug, I guess. Pain was my drug.
Instant addiction
No chance of conviction
Everyone already thought I was a freak anyway. Why would they comment on the now ever-present wristbands? The only people who would have commented were the teachers and they had already given me up as a lost cause.
For awhile, I only had three cuts. I even named them: Jesus, Satan, and God. I thought it was cool to cut God on Sunday, watch Satan heal, and reopen Jesus on Tuesday. But then there were too many to name.
I started wearing to wristbands on each arm and black socks so the blood wouldn't show. I rarely cut my feet, but when I did... My shoes reopening the cuts was like a controlled release pain pill just taking effect at random times.
I had a shitload of pills in my room. Various places. Pain pills, ecstacy, some anti-hestamine that fucks you up if you double the dose, caffeine pills, motion sickness capsules.
It was a rare day when I didn't show up for school on some kind of high.
Mike knew I was losing it. He just didn't know specifics. And he tried to help, really he did. But his voice was like a record playing in reverse and I couldn't understand.
Help? For me? Please. I'm fucking Billie Joe Armstrong. There is no help for me. I gave up on help a long time ago. The only help I'll get is the help I give myself and that's what he wanted me to fix.
It's like a kiss on the cheek
A kiss that tears open and bleeds
And then one day... I just got so fucking sick of it. I left the wristbands off and showed up to school tripping on too much of four different types of pills.
I never made it to first period. The second Mike saw the cuts he dragged me to his car, put it in drive, locked the doors, and just started driving.
And all the questions he yelled at me I answered with a laugh.
Why the fuck would you do that?
Why the fuck not? It feels good.
How long?
Two years. And you never knew. I keep secrets very well, don't I, Michael?
Why?
"I... I don't know."
He put on his turn signal and pulled into the 7-11 so fast my head hit the window. He slammed on the brakes and turned to look at me.
"You cut your wrist and show up high to school on God knows what. You fucking better have a different answer than 'I don't know'."
"I don't know why I started." It's the truth. I can't remember why I did it the first time. I only know why I keep doing it.
"You're getting help." Mike stated. "This is so fucked up, Billie Joe. Why didn't you just say something?"
Like what? 'Hey, Mike. I cut myself yesterday. '
"I don't know. I just didn't, okay?"
"No, it's not okay." he snapped. "You fucking cut yourself, Billie! There's nothing remotely close to 'okay' in this situation."
"Stop being such a drama queen."
That's when he slapped me. "You shut the fuck up and listen to me." he snarled. "Cutting yourself is not okay. You're sick, you're depressed. And if you don't get help, one day you're going to cut too deep."
I didn't say anything.
"Do you want to die, Billie Joe?" His voice is soft now.
I'm quiet for a moment, thinking about the question. Do I want to die or do I just want things to change? Do I want to end it or do I want it to be like it was before? Do I want to leave everyone behind to deal with another one of my messes?
"Billie?"
"No." I whisper. "I don't want to die."
As I come down off my high
I stumble in my mind
The only thing I'm tripping on are my feet.