There were restrictions too.
Addresses they didn’t want me near. Certain environments they considered destabilizing. People they advised against contacting. Behaviors they expected me to avoid. It was all buried beneath soft professional language designed to sound supportive, as if they were offering guidance instead of drawing invisible borders around every part of my life. I wasn’t allowed to leave the country without permission, and hearing that made something inside me tighten all over again.
Even freedom came with limits already waiting for me.
Invisible ones this time, buried beneath paperwork and signatures instead of concrete walls. I still took the pills. I didn’t trust them and I hated what they turned my head into, but I had already seen what happened when there was nothing restraining the worst parts of me. I had seen how far my mind could carry me once it slipped loose completely, and some part of me still believed that version of myself was waiting somewhere underneath all of this, silent and unchanged, watching for the chance to crawl back to the surface. It wasn’t the same as before though. They lowered the dosage enough that I no longer felt completely erased by it. Before, the medication had turned me into somebody distant and hollow, somebody I could barely connect to when I looked at myself. Now the feeling was lighter, easier to exist inside, even if I still noticed the shift every time the pills settled into my system.
My thoughts blurred for a while.
The world felt strangely far away. Then it eased again, and I could still feel myself underneath it all. Somehow, that ended up meaning more to me than I ever thought it would. I found work soon after getting out.
Demolition.
Most people hated that kind of job, but I didn’t mind it. There was comfort in the noise, in the dust coating the back of my throat, in the violence of watching a building come apart from the inside. You hit something enough times, and eventually it gives way.
Simple as that.
I spent entire days tearing through walls, exposing pipes, wires, rotten wood hidden behind layers of paint and plaster. Things people normally never have to see unless something has already gone wrong. By the time my shifts ended, my arms burned, my hands ached, and my head was finally quiet enough that I couldsleep without feeling like my own thoughts were trying to claw their way back into me.
I got an apartment too.
A small place on the edge of the city with cracked paint around the windows and pipes that groaned every time the water ran, but it was mine.
Nobody checked the room at night and nobody watched me through reinforced glass while I slept. The silence of that took longer to adjust to than I expected, but eventually I got there. I kept the apartment mostly empty because too many objects started making the place feel unfamiliar to me. There was a mattress on the floor, work boots near the door, dust from demolition sites permanently trapped in the fabric of my jackets, and a kitchen light that flickered whenever it stayed on too long. That was enough. More than enough, actually.
After a while, the days settled into something repetitive enough to survive inside. I woke up before sunrise, worked until my body hurt badly enough to drown everything else out, came home exhausted, swallowed the medication, then lay awake staring into the dark until sleep finally dragged me under. Somewhere inside that cycle, life stopped feeling completely impossible.
The days stacked, with nothing spiraling, nothing exploding, and that felt strange. Because for so long, everything in my life had been built around surviving the next collapse, the next moment where things went too far.
Now, there was just continuity and I didn’t know if I trusted it yet, but I stayed in it. Maybe that’s all this is, little Ghost. Just day after day, knowing exactly what you are capable of and choosing, every single time, not to become it, not to let it out… unless it's necessary.
There’s one thing I haven’t told anyone.
I didn’t get rid of him.
That’s what they would want, right?
A diagnosis, a treatment, a version of me where everything that doesn’t fit gets labeled and pushed out until what’s left looks acceptable enough to function in public, but it doesn’t work like that. You can’t just carve something like that out of yourself and walk away untouched. You don’t spend years building something inside your own head, feeding it, listening to it, letting it shape the way you move, the way you think, the way yousurviveand then just decide it’s gone because someone put a name on it.
He is still there, further back, like something that stepped out of the light and decided to wait. And I know he’s there, not as a delusion or something I’m confusing for reality, I know exactly what it is now, that’s the difference. Before, I thought he was separate, something outside of me, something I could follow or blame. Now, I know better. He’s not beside me, he’sinme, and I stopped trying to push that way. Because pushing it away won’t make it disappear, it’ll just make it harder to see when it’s getting closer, so I do something else instead.
I keep him contained.
I know where he sits.
I know what he sounds like when he starts to surface, not in words, but in that shift inside me, that fucking tightening, that clarity that feels too clear.
The truth is, there are moments when Ineedhim. Situations where something in me recognizes the old instinct, the part of me that doesn’t hesitate, that just… acts. I feel him when that happens, not taking over, but available and I make the choice.
Every time.
That’s the part they wouldn’t be able to understand.
They would call it a relapse, a step backward, but they weren’t there. They don’t know what it took to survive what I survived,they don’t know what it means to build something like that just to make it through, so I don’t tell them. I let them believe what they need to believe. That I’m stable, that I’m safe for the public and maybe I am. Most of the time. But there’s still something in me that hasn’t gone anywhere. Something patient, something that doesn’t need to speak anymore to be understood, something that knows exactly what I’m capable of and it waits. It waits for the moment I decide it’s necessary again.
There’s something I need you to understand before this ends, little Ghost.
I’m talking about this moment here, the one where your hands are already loosening their grip on me while some deeper part of you still keeps reaching back.
