They say mad men are nothing but monsters, some kind of odd ‘Devils creation’. Though, everyone always seems to forget that they only live in a world where possibilities run wild and reality is nothing but a fragment of imagination, something taboo to all of those around that seem to think they’re in their right mind.

Normal was never something in his life but he worked around those voices, those problems, in search of normality. It was like everyone had to walk upon eggshells around him, knowing how awfully different he was from the real world, how he was different than everyone else and they knew he was capable of many other things.

“I’m just a psychotic freak!”

Most are delusional to their psychotic measurements of mind eating fuckery that was nothing but tricks, but it rotted his mind, his heart, his every thought because he was only told his whole life he was a freak, a fucking psychotic asshole.

“I’m a freak.”

He had a sense it was his fault from a young age on. From the way his mother’s head smashed into the wall by his father and the way his father’s eyes were to the point of bleeding red. Maybe he had some kind of weird sense that made his parents fight, or maybe they were horrible people but from the small age of three, everything was his fault, whether he understood or not because his parents were not parents at all.

“He’ll never be normal.”

His hands rest in his lap, head hung low as he heard his mother sob. He knew it was his fault, his fault for being such a fuck up, being so fucked up. He knew this was a front, though. His mother gave jackshit about him besides the fact he was a delinquent nine year old that felt the need to kill his pet rats. But he was as curious as any child, feeling that he needed to see what ran through its small body, what was inside of it. He soon learned though, he learned he was never just that normal 'curious nine year old child’ like he felt he needed to believe.

“He won’t survive this world.”

Survive this world? What world? The world of freaks and geeks? A world in which he was not meant to be a psychotic mess but his parents fuck with his head from a young age? A world of hurt and pain; his own world might just be his way out.

“But that’s why he has his own world.”

His own world? More like the world they made for the small child that felt killing was a fascinating and intriguing matter. He was never a squeamish child, loving everything that caught his attention; which was just about whatever he caught sight of.

“A world of killing? Psychotic thoughts running through his mind? He’s fucking psychotic.”

If only she knew.

“Ma'am calm down.”

Calm down. Calm the fuck down.

“Look what you’re doing to the young man.”

His hands ran through his hair, his body swaying forth and back as his hands left his head, his fingers working to count. Counting. Counting every number from one to whatever number he could get to without a common distraction.

“Ninety. Ninety-one. Ninety-two.”

Ninety-three and ninety-four, ninety-four… ninety-four. And then his mind ran blank, his body stopped moving, fingers no longer working to keep track because his mind ran away of any numbers, any number that was next.

“Make him stop!”

Make him stop. Make him stop thinking everything was his fault. Stop making him go fucking insane! Make him stop wanting to kill, wanting the crimson gold, wanting to watch the life leave every living thing. Make him stop being the psychotic fuck he was. Make him stop! Make it stop.

“Make it stop.”

'Make it stop’, he whispered. Make the voices stop. Make this nagging, dreading, heart aching feeling stop. Make this voice telling to kill, telling to take the innocence from this world, and make it stop. Please. Please, make it stop.

“You’re not psychotic.”

Shake after shake, the boy sat in a trance, not noticing the squeezing fingers on his shoulders or the jolt they brought him. He registered the anger in the voice, hoping it’d attack his brain and make him realize he was as normal as any other child.

“Get away you freak!”

Kids at school caught on. He should’ve stayed home, been in a hospital but his mother wouldn’t admit to his psychotic tendencies and a few 'he’s perfectly fine’ passed her lips on a daily. She couldn’t help but be in denial her 'little boy’ was fucked up in the brain but she’d also never know she brought those tendencies on him, bringing them upon the boy at such a young age.

“A-and I’m not psychotic.”

He would talk to himself, argue, yell that he was not a psychotic mess like everyone would like him to believe. But he was, he was a mess of mind eating thoughts and heavy doings. He couldn’t help but kill innocent things, watching as the life left the eyes of many things and taking notes on how they were all different and what he thought ran through their mind one last time.

From time to time, you would catch his attention in the hall, not having, for once, the odd feeling to kill, almost as though you calmed the psychotic part of him to a rest. He knew he could never have you, though, and deep down that angered some part of him, a new mindset on getting you, keeping you, and never letting anyone else have you.

He often wouldn’t talk, face flat of any emotions and shoulders slumping. With his overly high height, this frightened many as he would tower their shorter figures and his expression giving off an odd sense of 'back the fuck up or I’ll destroy you’. He was constantly anxious, legs shaking, hands shaking, and the occasional head twitch and jerk. He believed things followed his every move, taking notes like he was some experimental rat with the odd structural criticism.

One day, after only having two hours of sleep in three days, he went total mad hatter. He followed the mind eating voices, legs taking him wherever the voices guided. Nothing else was on his mind beside the odd thoughts, not noticing he walked out of school with many authoritative demands for him to go back to class.

You sat at your normal spot by the big oak in front of the school, reading during your free period. The shouts and demands pulled you away from your book, head tilting up in protest to see the kid with the bright red hair walking away from the school and the teachers who stood rigid with anger. You watched as the boy headed for the woods, not understanding why he would travel to a place so dark, so mysterious. You heard about the horrible incidents that would happen deep inside the croaking aged oaks and you feared the survival of the young boy.

Jumping up from your spot, you jog the path the boy took, watching as he walked slowly and steadily, hands twiddling in front of his moving body. You watch, fascinated with how he worked step by step strategized and somewhat planned.

Before him stood his demons, or more so the calmming, demanding voices in his head. They stood tall and dark, black suits and pointed hoods covering them completely of the monsters they were.

His legs worked to move, following the voices, their every command and it scared you the way he was so willing to walk almost off a cliff that stood tall above a river below. Many deaths came from the falling height, killing those that fell from the many jagged rocks and branches sticking out.

Of course you’ve never talked to him, always warned to keep distance and stay away. No one wanted to deal with a 'psychotic mess’ as they would say but you never seen anything odd about him, seeming as normal as anyone. Well, besides the crushing sounds of the noses and bones from his occasional fights or how his odd finger twitches, but you thought it was only because he was a troubled child with an awful past and was constantly up a wall.

“Michael,” you screamed at the boy, hoping to grab his attention and get him away from the cliff.

He watched the water sway back and forth, listening to the loud voices that were telling him to do it, that no one would care, and no one would really notice. He took one more step forward, his toes tipping off the small edge.

“Michael, please,” you stood feet behind him, talking softly so you wouldn’t startle him. “Don’t do it,” you watched as his hair moved with the wind, hands resting at his side as he stood tall.

The loud, demanding voices were soon replace with a soft and sweet whisk that took over his mind.

'Turn around’.

'Do something’.

And it was like he had control of his body for once, the sweetness soothing all things bad and letting him have a piece of mind.

“Please, Michael,” and with one final plea, he turned around to face you.

He wasn’t sure if he was dreaming, finally completely insane, or if reality was as bittersweet as they say. He slowly walked away from the edge, hoping that this wasn’t some sick joke his mind pulled like always.

“Say my name.”

You quietly stood feet away from him, almost shaking in your spot.

“Say it,” he yelped, body shaking with many emotions, his mind going insane with the fact you where so close yet so far.

“M-Michael, please,” you back up as he proceeded towards you with a hard expression. You were scared and you never knew what the boy was capable of, how bad he could get within seconds, and what he had in mind; he was beyond a mystery anyone could solve. “Don’t hurt me,” your eyes slowly fill with tears and your back to a tree, your hand covering your face. He slowed to a stop, watching as you broke down in front of him.

He was never one to deal with emotions, let alone understand what they meant, but he knew you were in a deep state of fear and that you thought he was capable of hurting you.

And for the first time in years, he felt a sense of shame and disappointment towards himself.

“Please,” he walks to you, fingers twiddling and legs shaking. You made him feel, you made feel things he never thought possible or knew exist and he lost all explanations. “Please, (Y/N),” and his hand reaches for you but you flinch into the tree and away from the beautiful beast that stood sloppily in front of you questioning his actions and wants. “Know I’d never hurt you,” and without thinking twice, he grabs you fully and into his oddly hot body. “I’d-I’d never hurt you,” he squeezed you tightly in his arms, fingers prodding deeply into your skin. “I’m not some psychotic freak,” he growled in your ear, holding you even closer to him. “Am I?”

It’s important to remember the people that can’t open up about their mental illness and condition. It is more common to see  acceptance, stories, awareness, and confessions of depression disorders, anxiety disorders, ADHD, etc, over other types. It’s painful for others with other types to have such stigma attached, that they have the pressure, loneliness, and misunderstanding to remain quiet. Yet, while others get the understanding and praise that should be included amongst all types. Being such selective is discriminatory in itself.
This is for people with chronic disorders, personality disorders, dissociative disorders, schizophrenia and other psychotic disorders, those that are afraid to even mention the word “psychotic” because of its connotation (when it is merely supposed to be a psychology term describing a set of symptoms, just as ‘depressive’ is), and those that feel alone, constantly mocked, belittled, and ignored by society and the very people around them. This is for those left out when people say they support mental illnesses, yet, really mean they support those that are deemed normal enough by society. This is for all of the lives taken away, all of the fear, pain, and shame.

  • Neurotypical:No! There's no excuse for being weird, having troubles talking to people, or poor grades. You don't need accommodations, because you're actually a selfish, lazy freak!
  • Neurotypical:Having that mental illness or disability means you WILL commit a crime and are most likely already a murderer. You should never have a good job, because you're a liability, even after recovery. You have no right to try to help people. If you get excellent grades or achieve anything grand, you can't take any credit! DON'T EVER TALK TO ME -- YOU'RE SO OFF!
  • Neurotypical:We all have the same brain chemistry; I'm just better than you.
  • Neurotypical:I have a great job, because I'm better than you. You, too, could achieve as highly as I do, if you worked as hard as I do. That's all there is to it.