#gee's journal

[mikeywaysstonerbrother]

$18.18 is stupidly hard to say in a Midwestern accent 😭 hate it here /lh

[geesjournal]

Finally, it's done! I never anticipated it would take this long to transfer all of these entries, but I hope you all can forgive me.

I'm more than glad this portion of my life is done and over with, in the past, and I'm eager to move on.

[geesjournal]

Frank.

I always thought you hated this thing—the journal, I mean. You always had a look of disgust or loathing whenever you dragged this thing out. Well, you did that when I was locked in your room, when, um, the dragon (was that what you called Dr. Miller?) first got you one. I didn't really know how difficult it was for you to express your feelings then, but I began to realize when you yelled at me when I told you it was going to be okay. Ah, yes, good times. You're probably wondering—well, if you can wonder, I'm not sure—how I exactly knew you called Miller the dragon. I walked into the bedroom after our little dispute we had Christmas day—I'm sorry about that by the way—and I saw you sleeping with Boo by your head. And in your arms was this journal. I didn't even know you still wrote in this. I always thought you just locked me out of the bedroom for several minutes a night just to be an asshole, but I guess you were writing in this. Your handwriting is really messy, too. I can still make out a few things, though. But I guess that adds a personal touch to it, eh? I carefully slipped the journal out of your arms—you felt so warm—and walked over to the chair you had next to the desk. I sat there and started reading. I was sort of lost, because it didn't have any previous journal entries that you had written, like the ones you wrote when I was living at your house. Oh, look at me, saying I lived there. In a way I did, I suppose. Before I read any more out of that journal, I searched for the previous ones. I found them in a box in the closet. They weren't in good condition, but as I read, I found out why. You had several emotional breakdowns and probably took it out on the poor journal.  The ones that affected me the most were the ones when you were sent to that institution. I didn't realize how much of an asshole I was back then.  Eventually, I got to the journal that you were holding in your arms. It tore me apart how you wrote how, basically, everything was perfect in the beginning. Our life was going smoothly, and we were enjoying ourselves. I didn't quite understand why you referred to me as Pumpkin, but I didn't really mind.  I hardly recognized the fact that you were slowly deteriorating, breaking down from the inside out, if I can put it like that. I thought everything was going fine—we had the occasional argument and fight now and then, but I didn't notice how it affected you that much. The last few entries made me tear up a bit. You made it seem like I was a heartless bastard, but you forgot to mention that I wasn't the only one throwing hits—you were, too. I have the bruises and a black eye to prove it. Not to mention I have internal scarring from where you "punished me like the whore I was". Hm. I didn't know that getting the chance to talk to everybody at the party and not focusing all my attention on you qualified me to be a whore. Yes, I admit I drank a tad, but I was certainly not acting like a whore. I shouldn't be getting mad at you over all this. I know you weren't all right in the head. But I still stuck with you, didn't I? I found myself crying whenever I got to the last entry—your suicide note. I thought it was all a joke, because as I reached over and touched your neck, you were still warm. Very warm. You breathed and swallowed occasionally. You even grinded your teeth.  But I was more wary, then. I crawled into bed and curled up close to you—Boo was now by your feet—and held you and the journal close. I thought you would wake up the next morning. You didn't. Your lips were blue, as well as your skin. Your fingers were wrapped around my wrist, and I figured you done that in your sleep—subconsciously, of course. You didn't want to lose me when you did eventually... go. I sat up in bed and looked at you in horror. I tried to pry your fingers off of my wrist, but it was hard. Eventually I did, and I jumped off the bed, falling onto the ground. I didn't know if I should have called an ambulance then, so I didn't. Maybe you didn't really pass. Maybe you were just sleeping soundly, like what had happened to me a few weeks prior. Oh, dear, I really hoped and prayed that you would be okay. But by the third day, I called an ambulance, because you still didn't wake up. Boo even noticed. It was heartbreaking to see her paw at your face, wanting you to wake up and embrace her. I kinda wanted you to do the same to me. A few days later, after you were removed and shipped off, I had sat at the apartment by myself for New Years Eve. I drank—don't worry. I wouldn't want to pass up that little tradition. Boo sat beside me, and it seemed as if she were mourning, too. We both were, and my heart only broke more with each drink I took, because it brought back memories of you.  Eventually, I walked into the bedroom and grabbed Let the Right One In. I played it in the living room and laughed and giggled and cried at all the right parts, as if you weren't really gone. I could almost feel you sitting beside me, a secure hand on my waist, but I knew it was probably the beer I had been consuming. Mikey, Brendon, and Ryan stopped by the place and gave me their condolences. I accepted nonetheless. It seemed like they felt they needed to see me—just to see if I was still alive. I guess they figured I would follow you, but I would never do that. I'm sorry if this upsets you, where ever you are (come to think of it, I don't even know why I'm writing in this—it feels like such an invasion of privacy), but I just want you to know that, yes, I will continue living my life, even though you aren't here. I know this may offend you, again, where ever you are, but I feel as if I need to. Someone needs to take care of the apartment and feed and tend to Boo. She can be quite a bothersome if you don't pay attention to her when she paws at your leg. Maybe I'll even start working at the record store where you worked. Hobby Lobby is starting to get boring anyway. But don't worry; I won't drug some attractive-looking guy if I see one. That was your thing, never mine.  I wouldn't want to make another guy have emotional problems, like I had developed. I wouldn't want him to become bipolar and slightly depressive and afraid of moving on. I'm so scared. Nobody deserves to live in this state of fear. But I'll be okay. Because you'll be watching over me. Right? Shit, something touched my neck. Haha, I'm so funny... nothing was there. I love you, Gerard. Even though I didn't show it at times. You were the best thing that has happened to me, and I'm not saying that out of the Stockholm syndrome that I probably have. These past few months were the best. I wish I could live through them again and fix all the fuck ups I done—that we done. But I can't.  And I'm sorry. Your captive, forever and always, Frank.

[geesjournal]

a letter.

It took me a while to think up of how to write this, because... well, the words wouldn't come to me as easily as they used to, but I guess that's just my fault. I, I, never mind.  I, no. I wanted to say that these past three years were the worst ones of my entire life, and I don't say that that often. I used to think my childhood was hard, because of my parents divorcing, and my brother and I getting into situations brothers shouldn't be under my bed, but, but... I can honestly say those times were pleasant compared to what I've experienced recently. I know I probably sound like a pussy and a wimp and all this stuff, but, but I just can't do it anymore, and I blame him. He knows what's wrong with me, and he doesn't care. He just carried on like he usually did when he was younger. He, he, he should have known that by agreeing to move in with me, he would have to grow up a little to be able to deal with me. Being locked up in my room didn't show him the real me—that was only a small glimpse of something much more terrifying he would have to see later on when we moved in together.  I, I, he knows I'm not right in the head, and I, I take medication for it. Well, not really, because it just helps with the depression that's a side effect of what I really have, but the problem is that I don't know what's the main cause of my problems. The therapists never told me. They just prescribed me pills and told me my problem was that I was depressed over the sudden disappearance of the only person that talked to me, but, but it wasn't a disappearance. I took them, and I was depressed over the constant paranoia that someone would find him, that, that, that someone would take him away from me, when it took me so fucking long to get him right where I needed him. It took forever to get my hands on those pills so I could knock him out, and, and, and then all that was wasted all because he ventured out of my room, and Mama saw him. And, and, and, Mama, I'm really sorry about all this. I know I was your little boy, even if I was the oldest. I, I know you had high hopes for me. You said it yourself—I was going to make a mark in this world with my art, but, but the only closest thing I could do that meant "make a mark" was kidnapping him and keeping him, no doubt, left some mental and emotional scars. Maybe that's what I have. Maybe my heart's broken, and it's affecting my brain, or I just have a mental disorder, like the therapist thought I had all along. Maybe I am schizophrenic, like Brendon's mother thought her son had, but I know I'm not. People see him, and, with Brendon, I can see Ryan, and other people can, too, so that crosses out that possibility, but... I'm not entirely sure. Maybe all of this is made up. Maybe all of this is some world I created in my head, and I'm actually in a coma that was induced by a failed suicide attempt. But, but it's not made up, it's not! And I know that's hard to believe, because I'm so fucked up and not normal that all of this may sound stupid and crazy and retarded, but it's real. It is. Some people's lives seem almost too mad to be real, but you shouldn't assume such ignorant things until you met the person, face-to-face, and actually talked to them, like they were an actual person, not like your patient or some burden that you just want to go die. That's not right. It's not. So, um, I'm ranting and carrying on when I really should just be focusing, but, but it's hard, because my mind's fuzzy, and my head hurts, and there are tears everywhere—on my hands, my face, my chest, even my Goddamn hair. I, I'm just really sorry that I can't do this anymore. I've tried to go on and on and on, but I just can't. It's hard, and when you have no one there to stand by you to help you through everything, to tell you "everything's going to be okay, just keep your head up high and smile that beautiful smile", it's just hard to keep going. I thought I was strong, because I lasted this long, but I've discovered that I'm not strong at all. I'm a fucking wimp, because I need the support of others to help me through everything. I mean, I know you're supposed to have family and friends supporting you, but, but... I don't... and I want them, but I can't, because Mikey's off somewhere, and I haven't talked to him in God knows how long, and, and I just can't do this anymore! He, he, he lives with me, and he just constantly makes my life a living, breathing Hell, and he doesn't understand how it makes me feel whenever I look at him and just suddenly start crying, because he's on the other side of the room, staring at me with narrowed eyes that read what the fuck is wrong with you? It makes me feel hurt that he doesn't even care to ask, doesn't even care to sit down with me and hold me and cry with me. He just stares and walks right past, because he doesn't care. I know he doesn't. All he's with me for is just the sex, and he probably doesn't even love me anymore, and I love him with all my broken heart can muster.  I'm literally shaking, because my sobs have taken control over me so badly, or that could just be my medication kicking in, because I'm starting to feel light-headed, and it hurts a bit to breathe, but, but I have to finish this. I have to, because, if I don't, no one will know the real reason why I went to bed one morning and never woke up. They have to know. But, but I don't have the energy to tell. I just don't... Maybe I'll explain everything when I wake up... but... I won't wake up... I, I, I, I was depressed, because of an unknown disorder, problem, whatever in my head, and no one helped me with it—just brushed it aside and stamped "depression" on it, but, but depression is the side effect, and, and no one helped me through it, not even him, when I thought that he would help me the most, because he's been with me, he knows how I function and all that. He's like the instruction booklet to the out of order machine that's me.  But the booklet is missing papers, and the machine keeps spiraling downward into a hole that it can't get out of, and it turns into a puddle of oil and blood and other parts, and the booklet just lies in it, because it can't do anything else, because it depends on the machine for everything, because without nothing to fix, it just lies there with nothing to do, and eventually, the pages will become tore and frayed, and it'll slowly die as it waits for the machine to start up again, but it doesn't, and the booklet will just lie there, because it slowly started to crash and die when the machine failed and turned to mush.  I'm fucking awesome at analogies, even when I can't see the paper or the pen I'm writing this note with. I, I, I better lie down. I'm getting dizzy, and I fell out of my chair, like, two times already. I, I feel terrible, but I blame it on the side effect of what I have wrong with my brain—depression. And I blame depression with what I had just done and hope to not fail—attempted suicide. So, I shall lie in bed and hope I won't be awakened. I know I won't, because he wouldn't care. He would just think I went to bed, holding my journal, because I'm crazy and find solace in this journal other than in a person. I'm not even making sense anymore. I, I, I. I don't know.  I... I just need my bed. Where's Boo? I'll, I'll use her as my pillow. Maybe she'll provide an easy way into the next life or wherever I'm going. Boo? I, I need her. Where is she? Where is the other one? Where's he at?  He, he, he doesn't care. He never did. I, I. I'm tired. It's bedtime now. Goodnight.

[geesjournal]

day forty-nine.

Sunday.

December 25.

Merry Christmas! I love you two! That's what I said to Boo and Pumpkin when I woke up today. And I got the same reaction out of the both of them: a grunt and a roll over, making their backs face me. So, I got up and sat in the living room, deciding to wait on them to wake up; I was excited to give them their presents. They woke up around nine, and Boo jumped right up to sit beside me on the couch, and Pumpkin plopped down on the floor by the small Christmas tree I had put up a few days ago. I gave Boo her present—a pretty collar with a bell and a ball filled with catnip. She took it to the corner of the room and started playing with it. I watched her for a few moments before turning my attention to Pumpkin, who had started to fall asleep again.  I thrust their present in their chest and waited for a reaction. I wanted them to be happy about it, because I did spend quite a bit money on it, and it made me think of them. It was a guitar—a nice, sleek white one.  Pumpkin stared at it for a few moments. I couldn't really be sure if they were happy about it or not, so I lightly poked them in the shoulder and asked them if they liked it. They only responded with a small nod. I bit my lip and asked if they got me anything, and I gave them a big smile, but something happened, and it all descended downward from there. Pumpkin started yelling, and they smacked me around a bit. They told me all I did was treat them like shit and not appreciate anything in my life that they gave to me, which was totally wrong, because I was the one who put the extra mile in everything I do to make them happy, and I told them that, but they were set on what they had said, and what I tried to say was the exact opposite, and I was lying. So, of course, at the mention of me lying when I knew I wasn't, I started yelling at them back, and I even hit them a few times, which was returned by the receiver in a more violent way than I have ever seen before. It wasn't just hits. There were kicks, bites, scrapes, scratches, bruises.  Basically, if Boo was human and was able to give a damn about my health, she would have had every right to report this as domestic abuse.  But she's not human, and she continued playing with her little ball, rubbing her face into it as her little bell chimed with every jump she planned, every step she took, every swipe at the ball she timed correctly. And I continued being beat.  It didn't stop, and when I tried to fight back, they had grabbed at my wrists and shoved me aside, got on my lap, and started fucking up my face with their hands, their nails digging into my cheekbones and making long pink scratches that were sure to bleed for several hours.  I pushed them away, but their nails were dug in deeper, and they stayed hooked on even when I pushed and pushed and pushed them off with all the force I could muster. But eventually, I became weak, and Pumpkin took this to their advantage and started to bite some more— mostly on my neck, on my throat. And these bites weren't the types that make your eyes roll in the back of your head and moan and fucking orgasm, no, they were the type that animals produce out of an unrequited hatred toward their owner that had cared for them for a very long time. Pumpkin had became weak after doing the painful bites, and they jumped off me and decided to do the worst possible thing they could do at that moment: break the guitar I had given them. They smashed it against the walls, the floor, sending shards of everything off the wall, piercing me in the arms and stomach. Some had even hit Boo, but it was only in a small region, like her tail. After the chaos had stopped, Pumpkin turned to me, heavily breathing.  They looked at me with narrowed eyes that read I don't give a fuck about you anymore before running off to the bedroom. And I stayed there, hearing Boo return back to her toy, the little bell on her collar ringing—the only happiness striking this day for me. This may have been the worst Christmas ever.

Word Count: 782.

Mood: Agony.

[geesjournal]

day forty-eight.

Saturday.

December 24.

Pumpkin was a total ass. I thought it would have been a good idea, since it's our first place together, to throw a Christmas party with a few of our close friends.  Well, it wasn't.  Pumpkin drank a lot, much to my disappointment. They didn't even seem to care that people were talking about them while they thundered around without a care in the world. It ticked me off. How could Pumpkin act like that? I don't know what I'm gonna do with them! I'll just have to punish them tonight.  They were acting like a whore earlier. Well, if they like acting like a whore, then I'll punish them like one.

Word Count: 112.

Mood: Frustrated.

Watching: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, part two.

[geesjournal]

day forty-seven.

Friday.

December 23.

I noticed Pumpkin was limping this morning. And with every other step they took, they had begun to whimper.  I went over to them when they had lay down on my bed and hugged them, my arms wrapped around their small body as I stroked their sore body, kissing their face. I remember that Pumpkin was also wailing last night, like they were in pain. I feel horrible. I hope everything will be okay tomorrow, on Christmas Eve.

Word Count: 78.

Mood: Hope.

[geesjournal]

day forty-six.

Thursday.

December 22.

I fabricated a plan earlier today. I'm going to make Pumpkin forgive me. It's so genius that nothing could get in the way to make it fail. But, just my luck, something happened.  Okay, well, my plan was to watch Let the Right One In with Pumpkin, but when I popped in the movie and told them to come here, they shook their head, but eventually, they gave in and decided to watch it with me.  After the movie, I turned to Pumpkin and tried to hug them and kiss their face, but they slipped away and walked to the bedroom. So, like always, I guess I overreacted, because next second, I was following them into the bedroom and yelling at them. I hardly remember what I even said, but all I know is that my throat hurts and various other body parts do, as well.

Word Count: 146.

Mood: Tired.

Listening to: Pumpkin snore.