I don’t know how much time I have like this. Like this – lucid. I took back control of my own mind. This is Stephanie. Not that I’m usually called Stephanie, unless I’m in trouble and boy am in trouble now. I re-read the Unreliable Autobiographer II and laughed into a stunned, chain-smoking silence. She’s cracking up, she’s cracking up annnnnnd … she’s cracked. That author is cracked and off her head and – oh, fuck.
The rational part of my brain is signalling to me that I’m in the middle of a mild depressive episode. I tried to write that five times but sometimes it hurts to even pick up a pencil; and who writes with pencils anymore? I abandoned all of my other projects. They just turned so tasteless. I could write about Hong Kong as it tiptoes into a sticky, mind-numbing summer but the words land like ash, insubstantial and waiting in little heaps to be swept away. A typhoon is coming and it’s good because I’m fogging up inside and I need something anything to clear this bullshit away
Deep breath. Reliable prose. The real autobiography. The real now, the real moment, the unaltered state. I reckon I can stake back my claim on my own mind if I’m persistent enough, sneaky enough. The depressive parts are easy: I’m underground. Deep under dark and oozing ground and as far away from flying as it’s possible to be without any little fucking voices floating next to me in a golden shimmer pissing their sweet promises into my ear. It’s when I surface that I get scared and it – her – she – the second half rewrites my experiences in a way that makes me feel crazy. I feel crazy. I’m not, but she is. Or am I?
Listen – how can we trust anyone and their words? I tried to write reliably –
My workmate told me to change my moods like I was a tap that could be turned on and off. As easy as pulling a lever. She looked at me with such clear and bright-eyed optimism that I bit my lip as I smiled. I’m such a good actress that even my dead smiles taste genuine. I wanted to shout out that I’m living two sides of the same mad fucking spinning coin and it’s making me sick and my writing sicker and not in a good way and now I’m basically hiding from the other side of my self and just how mad – how mad is that?
I need to confide in you: she’s becoming unmanageable. We’re becoming unmanageable. Everytime I try to write something truthful she steps in, twisting my semblances as easily as if they were paperclips. Adding words, removing punctuation. There’s something so fascinating about brainiacs turned maniacs. She speaks in deathwishes and geniuses and all I want, all I desperately, hopelessly want is _____________________________________