damik's Diaryland Diary

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A short entry about what is going on now not what was going on a week ago

There is a man with dark brown hair and startling blue eyes. He wears a trench coat no matter what season. I don't know his name but he seems to know me. I have seen him following me.

Sometimes I talk to him, but he doesn't have much to say in regards to small talk. He turns to walk away as he does I hear him insert a thought into my head. He tells me to hurt myself. Sometimes I do, not because he told me so, I hit myself in the head to get the thoughts out of it.

He is not like the girl voice I have. She talks to me she tells me what to do. When this man inserts a thought into my head he disguises his voice so it sounds like my thoughts. But I wouldn't think these things, I wouldn't do these thing, the only thing I would do is to turn them into a joke. But I can't turn it into a joke. I really want to do it. Oh my fucking God, I tested the knife out for balance. So what I do is kill Izzy so Ron wouldn't have to deal with her after I am sent away.

I am supposed to go to a public place, I've thought up the gym or the grocery store, and stab people. I'm going to make them bleed, I don't need to kill them I just need their blood. It is an offering to a great and powerful mystic entity that I don't know.

The thoughts are full of pressure. I must do them. Unlike the voice, who tells me if I don't follow through there are going to be terrible consequences, the are just thoughts, thoughts that I have to follow through on. The thoughts are in my voice, but, they are horrible, they are lasting, music doesn't drown them out.

I'm afraid, I'm fucking afraid. I don't want his thoughts to be my thoughts. I don't know what else to say. My new psychiatrist told me to stop taking the Saphris. I don't know if this is happening because I'm not taking it any more or if it is because of something else. I just don't know.

I can see me lying down trying to avoid the thoughts but I can't get away from it. I go get the knife to test the pressure required. I stab the bed. I know that isn't a close analogue to stabbing people, but it will give me a starting point.

When I stab the bed it starts bleeding. I pull back the blanket and I am there bleeding and crying. It must be the part of me that doesn't want these thoughts, the part of me that searches everyday for a way to stop these thoughts. And you know what? I don't feel any guilt for what I did.

I don't feel safe alone, but having Ron here wouldn't help. It would just make him my first victim before I move on to the Walmart to fill my quota of blood.

3:31 p.m. - 12-26-12
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