yang never comes around anymore, and yin has to deal with that daily.

the television set combats the early morning light attempting to violate her state of mind. it makes her feel dirty. chirping birds and dew. the realization that everyone will eventually be coming back to reality to fuck up her solitude. polly jean sings in the background. the other one stirs but never snaps out of it. she longs for some sort of peace in her mind, to feel something in that ravaged chunk of meat some refer to as a heart. this isn't a game. this isn't a thrill ride in negativeland. this is real life. she's come to terms with that but can't find a way to properly cope.
sleep never comes easily for her.
11 a.m. brings on nightmare after bleeding heart nightmare.
9 p.m brings repetition and redundancy.
2 a.m. brings on the never ending desperation.
storm out stage left.
fight the emptiness.
re-enter stage right.
miss bliss suffocates on her own words. she's said them over and over and over and yang never comes back at her with what she thinks her mind needs. yang feels for her. he keeps a chunk of her wrapped tightly around his pinky finger and refuses to give up that tie that he unknowingly binds with. she doesn't seem to mind so much. there's a deep rooted connection, and it's always cataclysmic.
and it goes on
and on
and on.
but her fingers never want to touch another living soul for as long as she lives. her tongue has been tied & her eyes only see what they want. she can't make it stop. nothing positive can come of it because they can't be. not together. not now. maybe ever. so she holds on for as long as he lets her. she finds comfort in her surroundings and tries to forget every catastrophic incident they have shared. she thought she loved him, but her emotions are fucked and expressing them in a suitable fashion is nearly impossible for her. he gets inside her and wraps his hands around her heart. she is powerless. if they could just run away like some sort of gypsy landslide, life would be perfect. but she can't stay and he won't run.

raw with love

 little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to use the knife 

i won't flinch and i won't blame you.
as i drive along the shore alone...
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave, 

i won't blame you.
instead

i will remember the kisses...
our lips raw with love,
and how you gave me everything you had
and how i offered you what was left of me.
and i will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth of you
who made me laugh
again. 

little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no knife.

the knife is mine and i won't use it yet.

 — charles bukowski

rage/resist.

the fuzzy purple blanket is close to being shredded by safety scissors. i want to take the pink panther and throw him across the room while screaming "YOU NEVER LIKED MY MOVES!" and then make the fucking wooden frog splinter into a million pieces.
i never want to leave the safety of my apartment ever again.

I want a brain that produces the right amount of the right chemicals at the right time.

My story begins with a mysterious fever at the age of four that no one had an explanation for. Shortly after the fever broke, I saw Captain Caveman, club and all, in full cartoon form, running around in my back yard.
From the moment I recovered from the phantom fever on, I was a different person.
Entirely.
What's wrong with little Casey? The devil.
My mother was a pseudo christian who only called upon god when I was out of control.
"Oh, you say the devil's in your head telling you to do awful things? Recite the lord's prayer. That'll teach him."
My father was an absentee parent due to the need to support the family. Twelve hour work days six days a week made family time scarce.
At age eight I was put on Ritalin. After a year of dosing her child, my mother called upon my great-grandmother's church in West Virginia (mountain folk. the snake handling kind.) to do a mass prayer to end my battle with ADHD, and BEHOLD! Casey was saved and taken off of medication.
(right.)
School was a breeze. I was one of those kids who never had to study to get an A+ on a test, so they threw my little geeky self into gifted and talented classes, thinking that would make me "blossom". Beta Club, honors programs, gifted and talented summer classes at Murray State and SAT's at the age of 12...
Middle school was a terror. High school was even worse. Authority figures, and people in general, were a big problem for me. I was suspended twice my freshman year of high school, and wasn't allowed to return until I had psych evaluations (not as bad as it seems. I was a "weird" kid [in Marshall County High School], Heath had happened not too long ago, and I made the mistake of standing up for myself when the redneck boys decided to pick on me.) So what did I do? I just stopped caring.
At the way too young age of seventeen, I gave birth to Laelah.
(The next six years were filled with abusive "men", horrible decisions, and mental breakdowns that I don't want to go into at the moment.)
So we're at the age of 23.
January, 2008.
Maybe I rented a hotel room and tried to just leave. Maybe I didn't want to come back. Maybe it would have been easier that way.
Maybe I overdosed on the stupid combination of medications my psychotherapist had me on. (Adderall, Klonopin AND Xanax, but no anti-depressant/mood stabilizer? Way to go, Doc.)
Maybe I did it on purpose.
My vitals didn't want to stabilize in the ER, but of course, because I am who I am, they did, and I got to experience what it was like inside of Lourdes psychiatric unit, Two North.
Before I had even seen the attending psychiatrist, I was put on Adderall in the morning, and Risperdal and Xanax at night. I was a manic attentive mess during the day, and a slobbering fool at night. When I finally did get to see the psychiatrist, the visit only lasted for two minutes. He asked how I was feeling, and then told me what mental disorder had given me the balls to attempt to end everything.
I was on a 72 hour hold for evaluation, and in order to get out after those 72 hours, I had to attend group "therapy". All I got out of it was a fear of schizophrenics and a weak stomach due to the tab addict's seriously bad case of oral herpes. Sitting next to a three hundred pound schizo who announces to the group that the voices have been telling him to kill again makes you wish for even the dullest pencil, anything that can be used to protect you if he decides to listen to the voices and lunge forward...
So what is wrong with me? Why do I seem like the most awful cunt in the world?
Borderline. Personality. Disorder.
What is it?
You know that hell that some of you believe in? Where you go if you're an awful person to be tormented for all eternity?
I live in it everyday, and have for as long as I can remember...
It's hell. Day in and day out.
I don't want hell. I don't want to feel angry for no reason at all and push people as far away as I can, but without fail, I always do.

(the actual symptoms are here: 

http://www.borderlinepersonalitydisorder.com/understading-bpd/)

I don't trust. Anyone.
My emotions, when they're positive ones, are something that no one else will ever have the pleasure of experiencing. The joy, elation, and love that I feel are a billion times more powerful than that of a so-called "normal" person. If I love you, I can make you feel like the only person to ever walk the earth, and that pedestal that I put you on can't be touched by anyone.
But if you reverse that, and delve into the negative aspects...well...that's where it all falls apart. The pain, sadness, etc. that I feel is more than likely enough to bring down an army. I don't hurt like others. My pain is so horrendous and so far down into the very core of my being that it literally cripples me, and life? It doesn't seem worth the trouble.
There is never a grey area. If I like you, I love you. If not, I hate you. You don't have to do anything but look at me in what I perceive as the wrong way, and you've made Casey's shit list. I never mean for it to happen, and I'd love nothing more than to like you, but with me, it's not possible. You can always redeem yourself by speaking to me, letting me know that you in fact DO NOT hate me, which is what I'm thinking, because who could like a bitch like me?
It's all so confusing, really.
I'm jealous of those who go through life's problems unscathed. The ones who can handle all the stress without the thought of just killing themselves off popping into their head.

I want a brain that produces the right amount of the right chemicals at the right time.

But someone has to take the fall, right? I'll consider myself lucky to be able to feel love like no one else can, and cursed because my pain, it really never ends.

I'm not going to shoot up a school, a mall, a movie theater. I won't stalk you, try to kill you, try to purposely ruin your life. I don't have voices in my head and I have no imaginary friends.
I'm not psycho crazy. I'm just passionate...
...and I struggle to get through each and every day.

Finding everything smeared with the color of forgotten love.

“Human relationships were strange. I mean, you were with one person a while, eating and sleeping and living with them, loving them, talking to them, going places together, and then it stopped. Then there was a short period when you weren't with anybody, then another woman arrived, and you ate with her and fucked her, and it all seemed so normal, as if you had been waiting just for her and she had been waiting for you. I never felt right being alone; sometimes it felt good but it never felt right.”
-c. bukowski

And how does one simply just "turn off" the emotions when a relationship is ended by the supposedly significant other who no longer wants to be so significant? How do people with brains that function on a "normal" level just pick up their pride and move on to the next audition?

That's really all a relationship is...
An audition.
You go into it with open eyes, a beating heart, and ambition to go places. Together.
You spend every moment with that person in the beginning because it's new, beautiful, it makes you feel something other than alone and hopeless. You give that person anything, tell them everything, and expect nothing. In that moment, nothing, ABSOLUTELY NOTHING, can bring you down.
But something always changes. Maybe it was him, maybe it was you, but it just isn't right anymore.
One begins to get sickeningly jealous over the other relationships around because they make time for each other...while you're left standing in the back waiting for your turn and some time alone, but it rarely comes anymore.
So you begin to grasp for anything, any kind of attention, for him to hint that those feelings for you are still there, but it doesn't come.
You fake your way through the days, waiting for him to wake the fuck up and see what exactly the lack of attention is doing...
Maybe one night you're standing outside of a record store with his friends, waiting for him to appear because you've been waiting to see that face all day. Maybe you receive a long, drawn out text explaining to you that he doesn't want the relationship anymore because your brain wasn't mapped out like the rest of the world and he can't take it.
Maybe, just maybe, you realize that you're fucked.
If you feel that you truly love someone, are you supposed to just walk away?
Maybe you've always been the one that leaves. The one who stops loving or never loves at all. One day, after countless 

secondsminuteshoursdaysweeksmonthsyears

of the same bullshit, a truly wonderful person comes into your life. For awhile, it's cloud nine and fictitious angels singing praise. Then your brain decides to fuck everything up by releasing the wrong chemicals at the wrong time or never releasing them at all. Everything misfires and you begin to see the look of misery and monotony on the other's face. You still love them, and all you want is to be with them, but everything is wrong. You're wrong. They're wrong. The time, place, moment, thought...all wrong.

When is the right time to walk away if that's the one thing you don't want to do?

I don't want to be a ghost...

It's like we're connected at the part of the mind that refuses to function correctly.

Anti.

Maybe it's my dysfunctional, totally broken brain that makes me pull away from all things that cause me to open up and be social to/with another human. I don't hate you, I'm just making up all kinds of scenarios of the horrible things that you could make happen in my life, and rather than wait to see if those scenarios are going to play out, I choose to back away into the shadows and watch from the side.
People? They terrify me, to the point of panic attacks. In large gatherings, it gets worse. I keep to myself mostly and watch them, judging silently because what else do I have to do? I hide behind my camera and remember people in a way that makes me comfortable. Conversations are impossible because all the things that run through my brain go by too fast to push out of my mouth, and everything gets jumbled around so I end up being that girl. 
THAT GIRL.
If my life were a horror film, I'd be the bitch that gets killed first.