quick note: jackson's pov will most probably be in diary form and one of the only POVs that will stray from the normal. also, jackson is a girl, just to clarify.
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[ jackson ]
november 12:
you will not believe how many fuck-ups there are in a single group therapy session.
if you ask me, in my honest opinion, the whole situation of therapy feels like it has been written up in a shitty script for one of those awful, cliche movies everyone watches to make fun at the absolute stupidity gracing the screen. and i, the lovely cynical bitch, am one of those unlawful actors playing a role inside of its world.
like, seriously, i feel like i'm being watched by a rolling camera at the moment, expectantly waiting on the edge of my seat for the director somewhere in the background to call out, "cut!" and tell me i'm saying my lines wrong while stress lines form on his forehead.
i honestly feel like i'm in a movie and it is nerve-wracking. i don't feel in control of my own body and i feel like every sudden movement is being intensely scruntized. i don't like being center of attention, much less involved in a story that will probably end tragically.
after all, most famous, critically acclaimed movies have tragedy in it anyway. it helps set the scene and make a good story better.
look at the academy award winners like the titanic (the fucking "unsinkable" ship sank with thousands onboard), roman holiday (the guy actually doesn't get the girl), and the dead poets society (i mean the poor fucking boy kills himself because his dad won't let him be an actor.)
does that not scream tradegy or would you like me to get a megaphone for your deaf ears?
but who says i'm in an acclaimed movie anyway? better to be in the shitty ones if you ask me. but i'm afraid fate just does not like me and wishes all sorts of pain and agony on me, eh?
but, aside the point, what i am trying to get across is that i am in a movie known as reality and everyone in it is as cliched and stupid and awful and it fucking sucks.
i mean you literally have every single character that is ultimately common in these things, varying in sizes and ages and emotions and ethnicities and stories.
for example, you have the old drunk who complains about every little thing and pretends to have been getting his drinking habits under control (which you know is a lie because, i mean, the guy smells like a jack daniels every day and his voice slurs with just the right amount of intoxication that it can just pass for a lisp) and the twenty-something-year-old shady looking druggie in the corner, playing with a diamond encrusted ring on his finger (which you know was earned by the exceptionally well paid smuggling of drugs) and only speaks when spoken to in a deep, resonanting, almost terrifying voice.
you have the old lady with a bipolar disorder and has a story for every goddamn moment in her life that you begin to ponder if you should wait for natural causes to kill her or just go at her youself.
and, of course, the bulmic and anxorexic teenagers that look like skeletons with skin as their baggie clothes and who have a knack for ignoring questions and telling people off whenever confronted.
then there's the psychos who do the strangest fucking things from play with lighters and dance their fingers on the flame and talk to walls about the weather and Korean politics and flamenco dance to their chairs and hum Johnny Cash songs as they await their turn to speak.
oh, and please, don't tell me you forgot about those people who purposely mutilate their skins with the shinest, sharpest object they can find from exacto knifes to scissors to blades even to the side of a ballpoint pen just so that they can draw pretty red lines on their canvas and have the dark red paint form on top so they can become the artist they always wanted to be.
or even the abused introverts who refuse to speak or look at others or talk or even goddamn breathe because they lost their voices to their screams of mercy toward their abusers.
and, and, i'm forgetting the best one.
the suicidual dummies (who constantly try to kill themselves) that crave nothing more than to feel the embrace of death, who wish for the end by a pretty, fashionable trend of a noose hung around their neck or the sweet sensation of the sound of a bullet racing through their temples or the loving taste of heather's cake and codeine as they drift away into an endless deep.
did you get what i mean when i say i feel like i am in a movie now?
honestly, these people don't really exist, right? this is all a film and all these people aren't real but actors paid to become someone totally new?
there can't be so many people who are just so fucked up in life that they are all crammed into one room with no air conditioning so that they don't affect the "normal, regular individuals they wish to become." they're just figments of our imagination and fictional characters to show you that self-destructive ways can really kill you and that they happen to everyday people.
right?
well, you have obviously been misinformed to believe such shit.
these people are real with beating hearts and working brains and breathing lungs. so maybe they are a bit damaged and crazed and reclusive and sad. so what? i feel that these people forced into therapy are the best. they are the cool kids, actually, because they are the in between from stupid flawless perfection and the horrible flawed insanity.
they are the best kind of people to walk the earth.
but i suppose that is a bit biased of me, right?
because i'm one of them.
