All The Good Writers Die Young

Piece by guest writer Amelia Forrest amelia “Hello, my name is Amelia. We’ve met before and you think that you know me. I am a sufferer. It doesn’t matter what of, it never has. I am new to being aware of myself and my problems; the label is entirely inadequate for what it represents. I just wanted to take this little moment of clarity I have before I slip back into my own mind and apologise (profusely) to everyone who I have hurt because of how I think and act due to the things I mentally have no control over. I am so, so, sorry and even if we barely know each other or if I have never hurt you; I am sorry. I am so sorry. I feel enormously ridiculous posting this, but I finally reached out today. I finally asked for help. Please don’t worry about me, I’m safe. I just needed to tell you how much that I love you and how horrendous I feel looking back on the pain that I’ve caused you.”

I just realised that the reason I have such difficultly keeping what I write in first or third person, present or past tense, is probably due to depersonalisation. Just because I objectively understand these concepts doesn’t mean that I can subjectively apply them to myself. I feel as though my mind is on a parallel plane running adjacent to this one and that it is perfectly happy living there, but it’s left my body behind in this wasteland version of that plane. My mind drops in and out of this consciousness long enough to keep itself alive, but it’s as though I’m permanently on autopilot.

I barely remember what I’m talking about let alone what the people around me say. It feels as though everyone around me seems mechanical and fake. Like as though I were living real-life Inception and that everyone around me is just a poor projection of that person from my subconscious. It makes it hard to take other people’s needs into account when you aren’t even sure if you’re real, let alone them.

My body still tries desperately to reconnect itself with what it’s lost, but the anger and frustration of not being able to causes it to lash out upon itself, forcing my mind to come back and make it stop before it kills us both.

I refer to my mind and my body as separate. I call myself “us”, “we” and “you”, when I’m alone. I feel as though my id, ego and superego are all struggling for dominance over a husk of a person; yet none of them will give me a break and shut up, shut up – SHUT UP.

I’m constantly terrified that I’m going crazy, it’s so crowded in my mind. I always feel alone, but I can never be alone. Not with them whispering in my ears, dripping their poison down my throat. Choking me, giving me tunnel vision where no matter where I look now all I see is them. They are all malicious. Every one of their voices, all day, every day. They play me clips of every person I’ve ever loved saying the most horrible things that they ever have to me. They laugh at me when I’m in pain, they taunt me. They know that I’m weak; they bait me regularly.

“Coward”, “ugly”, “stupid”, “fat”, “unloved”, “worthless”, “whore”. They know the exact buttons to push to push me closer to the edge, because they are me. They are all me.

I once heard someone say “If you are aware that you’re crazy, then you aren’t.” Sadly, I think that sentence ruined a lot of my process of thinking when it comes to getting help. “I know what’s happening around me, I’m physically here. I’m not experiencing psychosis, because I wouldn’t be able to comprehend anything.” I mean really, who thinks that chronically not giving a single fuck is an actual disorder? It’s only because the detachment is getting so much worse that I’m stepping forward and saying something now. It’s going too far.

But still I feel like this shell of mine is not worth fighting for, not for me and sure as hell not for anyone else. My mind insists on exhausting me daily with its attempts to make sense of me, of where to go next, but I never know. I don’t know if I enjoy being separate from everything, myself included. It means nothing bothers me much until my mind checks in, which is around the time that the shit hits the fan and my emotions come out in one powerful burst in which I usually get injured or close to suicide, if not both. My mind usually runs on its own time, its own needs, its own power. It’s so busy focusing on everything but my body that I don’t remember to eat, to sleep, to talk, to live.

All I feel is this dull ache. Like when two halves can see each other; hear each other; touch each other, but can never be reunited. This is my life.


Amelia has been fighting herself in her head for years, but she’s finally decided to immortalize her internal struggle through the power of words. She a queer, mental-disorder ridden animal lover with a passion for writing and drawing who spends most of her time procrastinating simple things.


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