I have to start somewhere so let's start here. 

My Name is Aramis Nyles Johnson. Sometimes, I wish my name was simply Aramis. I am a black man from Lakewood, Washington, a suburb of Tacoma, Washington. I now live in Los Angeles California.  I stand slightly over five feet and six inches tall. I wear my hair shaved. slightly by choice every day it becomes more by force. I have three tattoos. I have two on my right arm and one on my right leg. I weigh on any given day about 172 pounds. Every day I dream of waking up at a nice 160 pounds. Sometimes I dream about being 105 pounds. I have no job. Most days that feels good. Sometimes that feels stressful. I woke up with -10.95 in my bank account but my lack of job doesn't feel stressful today. I dream of being a full-time critically and commercially successful artist. I spend most of my time working towards or thinking about that. Sometimes my life feels awesome and sometimes it feels awful. I can never really tell you why either side of the coin lands where it does on any given day. This is me. I don't like myself most days. Some days I think I’m awesome. It wasn't always like this but now it is. “I hated myself. I did everything I could to hurt myself.” 

“I don't want to be a slave, I don't want to be a whore, I don't want to be lonely and without love for the rest of my long life. I’ve got to find out how I got so fucked up.” 

For the last two weeks, I’ve been in the midst of the biggest depression episode I’ve had since I moved to LA. I couldn't string together a thought. The last time we spoke my therapist of a little over a year told me that she wasn't sure if we should continue to see each other. That was the straw that broke the camel's back.  It left me feeling like this. An unfinished attempt at a daily dose last week. 

“Poverty has poked holes in my brain that no amount of psychoanalysis can fix. I can't be saved I might as well be dead. They made me crazier than I could ever make myself. Now I'm sick. I want you to be something that you are not. I want you to be more than human. I want to spit on you because I hate you. I hate everything about you. I hate your smile and the color of your hair. The way you look. I hate you, and your stupid life. I want to text you and tell you that I don't want to be your friend anymore. What difference would it make, we won't talk anymore. I hate that I need you. It’s the wants in my mind that have made me like this.” 

Yesterday I spoke to my therapist. It won't be the last time we will have spoken. The breaths I can take today are now deeper. Something came up in our conversation that I've avoided talking about with her for months now. Something I don't believe in. She thinks my past is filled with trauma. I think my past is simply my past. She said it broke my brain. Now the left and right sides won't talk to each other. She said I get flooded easily because of it. I’m not smarter than anyone. I don't know what that means.  I think there's a worm in my brain. I don't know how it got there but I think that's how my brain got broken. What is trauma anyway? I think I could understand that better. I could be most receptive to what she has to offer. I do want to get better. Until then I’ll stay sick. 

consider this part 1 I need more time to say it better

• For 75 days I woke and thought I had to die but not today demo by Aramis: I wrote this song on Monday and I love it today. 
• It's not a short story by aramis: I made a solo record it's not mixed but here a link
• Dog Day Afternoon directed by Sidney Lumet: I watched this for the first time this week and loved it.