Dear Diary, Goodnight

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πŸ“… Published on October 14, 2017

"Dear Diary, Goodnight"

Written by

Estimated reading time β€” 7 minutes


Dear Diary,

I am new to writing these entries, but nevertheless, I’ll try to write in this regularly.

I have been diagnosed with schizophrenia. I have had it for all my life, but the hallucinations only kicked in last year. I thought everyone was like me when I was younger, but once I told my parents, they brought me to a psychiatrist.

This whole diary idea was suggested by my psychologist. She said it could help me, but I don’t see how.

What I have seen today has been the usual. I am sick and tired of it. Every day feels like I am in sleep paralysis, but with the perk of being able to move. This movement is a gift and a curse: I can run, and I can hide, but only I can see what I see.

My psychologist suggested that I meet more people like me, but I do not want to see them. I know that I am not alone, but I don’t want to look at the empty eyes of those who go through the same. Always having to question what we see, what we hear. Everything.

Writing about what I see specifically is hard. I do not know if I can. I see them every day, but I cannot get over it.

I live in a nightmare. When I sleep is when I feel free. That is when I know I can do what I want. My world, my rules.

I like to think that I am sparing someone else from this pain. If I would not have been born with it, fate would have chosen someone else, right?

Even now, she is telling me to give up on this. Her laughter echoes through my head as I write this.

What went wrong? What causes someone’s brain to play these games on them? What is real, and what is not?

One thing that I see, that I can tell you, is cockroaches. Roaches everywhere. One time I remember jolting awake from a nightmare, sitting up from shock. The roof was covered in cockroaches, some falling on me. They did disappear, though.

The worst is when I see the people I care about.

That is all I can write about today. She is screaming. I cannot concentrate.


Dear Diary,

Why is the world so cruel? I feel trapped in the grasp of my mind. I feel like the first time I slept is when it all started, when I never woke up.

Everything seems dark. Figures always move in the corner of my eye.

Mom says he is not real, but I know he is real. I see him in the pictures. Why do Mom and Dad neglect him like that? Why do they ignore him?

He always cries as he tells me about how they do not care about him. He is so young, he is only seven, six years younger than me. One day I found him in my bed, just as a small child. Why do they hate my brother?

Sometimes I can not tell if he is laughing or crying.

It is Monday, but I cannot go to school. I have the flu. She tells me I will die.

She has no body, she is just a voice. She mocks him, my dear brother. I wish I could kick her out of my mind, but I cannot. Mom tells me not to listen to her. She gets me medication, as Dad works to pay for it; the medical bills, the psychologist.

I do not want to be a burden.


Dear Diary,

I have not told anyone this because I am afraid. I know if I tell them, they will put me in to a mental hospital or something. I do not want them to know.

He works with them, the shadows always in the corner of my eye. The ones that follow me everywhere. They stare at me with their beady eyes. They are behind corners, behind doors, in the corner of my room. They are everywhere.

He is the leader. He is a man with bags under his eyes, patches of shaved hair, and a huge grin showing off a set of gross yellow teeth. What he looks like does not bother me. I have heard stories of what others have seen; those things looking worse. What he does is the worst. I want him gone, yet I also want to save him. I know he is evil, though.

I could be walking down the street, and he would be stalking me. He would walk in front of me, or anywhere that I can see him. He would mutilate himself, but I almost never see blood. Every time he would do that, it would usually stay on this body. Dislocated limbs and broken bones. His legs are bent in a way nobody’s legs should be, yet he still walks with them, screaming with every step.

He tells me that it is my fault, but I do not see how it is.

He says I could save him.

Sometimes he stands next to my bed, staring down at me, lulling me to sleep. He looks empty, like the shell of the man he could have been. His eyes are blank, showing no emotion. He has never touched me, but he has hurt himself. I see it every day. I hesitate before every corner, every door I open. Everything I do hurts me. He waits for me.


Do not trust them. Never trust them. They will lock you up, they will strip you from your freedom. They will never let you go.

β€œIt is for your own good,” they tell me. No.

I am getting sick and tired of the medication, the psychologists, everything.

I refuse to do it anymore. I will not take the medication. They are trying to change me, they are trying to make me like them. That is what he tells me. I trust him, he is my brother, after all. My parents, they neglect him.

He tells me that they are the same as me, that they are just using me as a test for everything.

What if I am the only sane person? They are all crazy. They are monsters.

I do not want to see them. I do not want to hear them.


They did not let me go. They kept me there, telling me that they would only let me go if I β€œcalm down and take my medication.”

Her screams grow louder every day, echoing in my head.

My brother, he is scared. He cries, he sobs, telling me to stay, pleading for me not to leave him.


The bags under my eyes grow every day. He will not let me sleep. The man, not my brother. The excruciating snaps of his limbs breaking keep me awake. The image of his neck, his bent and twisted neck, it keeps my eyes open. Every time I close my eyes, I see him. I hear him.

I want to sleep. I need to sleep, but I cannot close my eyes. The shadows never leave me alone now, either.

My pillowcase, too, is uncomfortable. The mass of pills I have hidden there is growing every day.

When I look in the mirror, all I see is a dead and broken version of myself. My skin is a sickly color of grey, with only the slightest tint of the peachy color I used to be. The tracks of my tears pile up, as every night I cry more. My once-lively eyes look bland, almost dead. My ribcage and collarbones. Bones. That is all my body seems to be becoming. My appetite is gone, as it has been for the past forever.

They said they would call the police. I heard them talking downstairs. Mom and Dad.

I do not want to see my hallucinations anymore. I do not want to hear them scream. She taunts me, and he screams in unfathomable pain.

Every time I blink, I see them.

I cannot drown his screams out with anything.

My brother, dear brother, where have you gone?

Why does Mom say you are not real?

Have you left me here? After all your crying, you’ve left me?


Were you ever even there?

It amazes me how someone could see with these broken and bloodshot eyes. I wish I couldn’t.

The man tells me that there is only one way to end it. Endless sleep, as he calls it. It is really clear that he speaks of death. I do not want to die.

The cockroaches crawl on my body. I feel filthy.

I can not remember what smiling is like. Brother, what is happiness? I wish you were here to tell me.

Brother, are you sleeping?


Dad is away, and Mom is fetching my medication. Mrs. Eddison is here to babysit me. I hate Mrs. Eddison. Even she says my brother is not real. He is not here. He never came back. The voice in my head tells me that he is sleeping.

I heard Mom talking on the phone. She asked them to come get me today, to lock me up in that hospital from before. Her words did not feel right; she was stuttering. Mother, please, Mother, why did you stutter?

Mrs. Eddison is making food. Lasagna. I hate it. I hate how all I can see as I look at it is the layers of skin, muscle and bones. Why would she make lasagna?

There is only one way to escape this hell.

Mother, I love you. Father, you too, I wish I could see you again.

I can see how this will go. I know it already. The knife by my side. I stole it from the kitchen. Mrs. Eddison forgets to lock the cabinet.

I will not see them again. I do not want to die.

My eyes, the windows to my corrupted soul, they are why I see. My ears, they are why I hear it all. My heart, it is why I am alive. I do not want to die.

I will join you, Brother. I will join you in your slumber.

I do not want to die, but if this is the only way to make it stop, then I will do whatever I have to.

Mom, Dad, I love you. I love you so much. I want you to come too, but I know you would never say yes. Mom, dad. Remember me. I love you so much. I love you. Please. I do not want to lose you. Why was I born? Why did you bring me to life?

I only wanted to be happy.

Mister, the one who is hurting, I hope this brings you to ease, you are in my head after all. I hope you fall asleep with us.

Brother, I will see you on the other side.

Is there an afterlife? Let’s see.

Goodbye, dear diary.


Credit: Kiara Abspoel

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