To The Wolf,

You were awkwardly beautiful that day. Every word you spoke felt like howls. I did not know where that refined savagery came from.

You speak of things simple minds think as just stories and tales.

But, I heard you. I listened and felt the narrative dripping from your fangs. Those tasty gore you live for.

They thought it was a play.

I know that was your history. Your life. Stripped for all to see. Decorated with the carcass of a once glorious culture. But still, Atlantis sunk.

They were mesmerized with your poetry. Vibration of your voice resounds the home you’ll never see. Your pitch was so sullen and haunting, I can still feel the chill.

When you looked back on that day, did you see the burnt bridges and the dried tears etched in the ground?

Did you get to smell the smoke? Remember it burning your lungs and kissing your lips. Does it cloud your eyes? Follow the ashes – the only reminder of what used to lay there.

Come back to us. What do you see? What do you hear?


Only glazed memories, thrown into the deep. You smile as it reflect the sky, your feelings, yourself.

All the audience witnessed was incoherent sound coming out of a troubled soul. They saw insanity. I saw it too, and it was beautiful.




Intro to Insanity

Image by Chester Cabarlie

Image by Chester Cabarlie


I is for Insanity

(Some bad things in here. Finally got the courage to post this. *deep breath*)

Crazy that’s what I’m afraid being labelled with. I was eighteen years old when I met my first psychiatrist. I didn’t even know where I am at the moment I was there. I can grasp so little in my head, the train of thought I was in was jumping all over the place and that focusing was an unpleasant task. Heck I don’t even know how I can remember those things. My mind was clogged with all the paranoia and fear that I don’t even know what day it was. I was a train wreck; pieces littered the street waiting to be burned.  With all the voices in my head commanding and upbraiding my actions, it was very hard not to be confused.  I sat at an office don’t know what I’m waiting for, along with my elder sisters. It was the first of many sessions.

The first symptoms of my illness showed its ugly face at the age of sixteen; I was hearing voices, I found out later that it was called auditory hallucination. At first it was just comments about the people around me, telling me things and criticizing people. Then it became demanding, aggravating me to no end. I didn’t confide with my siblings, thinking they would just shrug it off and blame me for just being weird; my parents are not living with us, as they are at the province. I tried to hide this to everyone. Tried.

I was scared and had no idea what was happening to me. Fighting this losing battle, I got worse. Voices in my head keep calling out. There were many times I don’t know what are real voices and the one inside my head. I started to alienate myself in class; I sometimes resort in skipping class just to appease the turbulent voices. I had my own world and spent many times at sea on it.

My grades was terribly affected by my illness, skipping class was no help. I was having trouble concentrating on class, and I was at lost in almost all of my subjects. I was plagued by the voices in my head. I could not get some sleep. It would be a lucky night if I could doze off at four a.m. My grades started to fall, my guilt of failing is killing me and the voices are at peak.

I was terribly depressed and found my way into cutting, I was terrified to cut myself. The fear was outweighed by the incessant coaxing of the voices, the first slash on my arm was just superficial just enough to bleed. The pain muffled the voices and my sadness momentarily. The bliss of being free of the demons in my head was refreshing. I resolute on mutilating to quiet the voices down. I would have six or more slashes on both arms each other day. The euphoria only lasted so short.

My siblings start to notice the slashes on my arms, I told them about the voices that I am hearing. At first they taught I was on drugs. But after a while they considered the possibility that something may be wrong about me that I might need help. Telling them felt like the weight on my chest was mislaid, I don’t have to pretend I am fine every time. But the fear being tagged as crazy is still there. I refuse to believe that I am crazy and that I am mentally ill. I was so terrified they would lock me up to hospital to rot. I would not be institutionalized! Luckily they see it like I do, so I would like to think. I agreed to go to a psychiatrist, but not to the hospital.

Fast forward to now and 2 different diagnoses later ( hoping for the lesser evil, *depression*)  I’m still holding on, keeping a tight grip on my sanity.