drug addiction recovery mental illness nonfiction relationships schitzophrenia selfhelp Uncategorized

mind of illness: s e l f h a r m

Happy Monday to everyone! These past few weeks I’ve been thinking so much about my state of mind… I’m currently at peace, and I’m so happy that after all of my years of pain and addiction, I could finally reflect in a constructive manner. I used to sit back, high as a kite, thinking about how much of a victim I was, but not once did I think about taking back control of my life and making a positive change.

Instead, I’d rely on destroying my body. With drug use and through self-harm. I’d find myself cutting my wrists, and writing across my torso with the same knife I’d sharpen each week.

Which brings me to my fourth piece of my “Mind Of Illness” collection. I really hope my readers can find peace in knowing that you’re not alone in the world! I’ve met so many people that feel as if they have no one and resort to self harm and destructive tendencies. Self-isolation can be very harmful for oneself but I also understand that sometimes we don’t have a choice. Escapism is something we all practice.

With that being said, we all have different needs, and we all respond to support differently. Shit, I used to have my son’s mother as my only source of support. But now I’m alone. I’m just happy I was able to find myself, because I would’ve killed myself the second she left me if I still had the same mentality I did back at the peak of my addiction and distraught state of mind.. I hope those that suffer from mental illness and addiction can also find peace and realize how precious their lives truly are.

So again, thank you all for reading, here is my next piece;

mind of illness: s e l f h a r m

I don’t even know what day it is anymore…The sun and moon are all I have to even guess what time of day it is. The lack of feeling has become too overwhelming, so I tally the rise and lowering of both sun and moon on each arm, just to feel something… Even if it is pain, I just don’t care anymore… I need to at least pretend I have some sense of control over this life of chaos. Shit, I used to cry just to remind myself I still have a heart… but my tear ducts are all dried up. I don’t even know if my heart still pulses.

I’ve spilt every single emotion from the tip of my pen to the once blank paper, now covered in heartbreak, hate, and blood. I’ve filled over three notebooks within the span of a week and not once have I gone back to reread what I’ve written… I just can’t handle the reminder of how broken I truly am… I’m running out of ink but my emotions continue to overflow. If I can’t let them out onto paper, they’ll only drip out of the slits on each wrist. Staining my floor with a puddle of hopelessness mixed within the blood.

I constantly ask myself why I even bother to write. It’s not a passion, I don’t expect anyone to read it, majority the time I don’t even know what I’m trying to say… what picture am I painting for my tiny, tiny audience?

Am I sober?

Am I happy?

Am I sad?

Am I on the brink of death?

I don’t know…


I have no idea, but the soothing sound of my pen sliding across the paper keeps my mind tranquil…

Even though, I can still feel death looming outside of my room. Waiting for me to open the door. Waiting for me to go in search for the source of that light gleaming under its threshold. Truth be told, I know that eventually, I will meet death once again. For our dance is a predestined ordeal. Yet, I do not feel a sense of fear, because out of the many faces it has, I look forward to meeting the next.

See, I am a realist, and I acknowledge that freedom isn’t written in my book. The fate of a sinner cannot be changed. Though, lately escape is all I’ve been seeing at the end of the tunnel. I do not search for that light beaming under my door, I have no interest in glamour. Instead, I desire a way out. I yearn for an escape from this tedious life of numbness.

I want to believe that my blood is more than just my emotions overflowing. I need to feel more than just pain and a severed connection from the world I once dreamed of seeing. Perhaps a meaningful bond is the cure to this self-inflicted isolation.

I hold on to a tiny spec of hope that there is more to my life than just notebooks filled with stories others never enjoy, songs that no one will dance to, and poems that have no end… In my mind, I know that my emotions are more than just a transfer of ink to paper… Those notebooks are a passage that will lead readers into the depths of my heart. Similar to how each scar depicts the most intimate details of my life.

-jay. “mind of illness”

depression drug addiction recovery mental illness nonfiction relationships schitzophrenia selfhelp Uncategorized

mind of illness: s c h i t z o p h r e n i c

To those of you who have been keeping up, thank you so much! I hope we can all get to a point where we understand the severity of mental illness and do our part in spreading awareness!

This next piece I was a tad hesitant on sharing, but it’s been a while since my last post and I want to be more consistent with my work.

Also, I decided to go back and reread my first book “The Fruits Of Addiction: A Pernicious Love” and I can understand why none of you were willing to read it 😂😂😂 God, yes everything depicted is accurate but my writing was TERRIBLE, ugh I ugly cringed after every page. So I decided to rewrite it and aside from my 2nd and 3rd book, I’ve been doing that on the side as well.

Btw yes, I’m writing a 3rd book 😂😂 it’s a book on poems, which I will be sharing here and there, for feedback. I’ve never been much of a poet but it’s so calming!!

Anyways enough of my personal updates, thank you for those who care!!! And on to part 3 of my “mind of illness” collection! I hope you like it!

i was once told that i was loved.

the person who told me that, was the same person who told me i would never amount to anything.

a lost soul with dreams to one day reach the heavens. born into mediocrity, domestic abuse, and mental trauma.

what does that make me?

am i loved?

am i a failure?

the scars patterned all over my body and my mind left a unique sense of trauma. all while the sound of a loved one’s voice resides in the deepest crevices of my brain, repeating each affirmation and censure faithfully as if it were a religious hymn.

“i love you!”

“i hate you.”

“miss you.”

“fuck you!”

“vete pa’l carajo, muerete”

“vos eres mi cielo”

Todas estas voces inunda mi mente…



my mind has become so overwhelmed, constantly racing between thoughts and topics.

i meant to say… all of these voices flood my mind everytime i find myself deep in thought.

what if i told you that i am nothing like the others?

What if i told you that i am not just another slave with the sole purpose of pleasing?

i crave a profound love, i crave spiritual connection, i crave peace. You don’t know how much i crave peace…

Peace of mind,

peace amongst my people,

peace when i enter my dreams,

but i know that is just another empty notion…

yet when i close my eyes i see the face of another tormented soul. another pained individual who shares the same moralities as myself. tormented, plagued with the same curse.

Whose demons haunt her at every sign of silence. tortured by the hand of her own mentality… yet full of love and hopes for prosperity and absolution. both of us calmed by our favorite drugs, leaving us temporarily numb, silent, &addicted.

the sins of our forefathers are what define us. &although we are destined for failure, i am pleased that i am no longer alone. i am pleased to know i was never alone…

but as i reach for a kiss, a symbolization of the mutuality forged by our predetermined fates, i finally open my eyes and realize:

there isn’t anyone there.

there never was.

the face of that beautiful poor soul whom i had fallen in love with was nothing more than a myth i had forced myself into believing.

no matter how much i pray, there is no silence, there is no salvation; solitude is where i reside.

i wish i could vow that it gets easier. that it will one day become manageable. but i developed a powerful habit, one that rivals my addiction to the euphoric numbing:


the realization that there is no hope, the realization that there is no escape, and the realization that those voices weren’t of loved ones, they were my own.

the voices of the many identities i oppose.

or better yet, oppose me.

-Jay. “The Fruits Of Addiction: A Pernicious Love”

a side note:

Just wanted those of you who may have taken anything I said offensively for whatever reason. Maybe because of my own depiction of schizophrenia, my take on mental illness, or how my work highlights the negative aspects of each illness.

Regardless I wanted to take this time to say that I am in no way romanticizing mental illness, or demonizing it. I have hundreds of pieces prewritten, from scholarly journals and studies to personal views and opinions. With that being said, I am using this tiny platform to hopefully portray the mind of those who face these issues and give my readers a glimpse of what their loved ones may be feeling. Maybe it’s not you who ever feels this way, but it is certainly me.

. Thank you for reading.