Fingers wound with hair, pulling it steadily while pushing with my palms off my forehead. I hold my breath and feel my chest contract, the pain feels like my lungs will surely burst. My heart races on and I refuse to breathe, not until it stops . . . not until it stops.
I rock on my chair with my eyes closed. Face in my hands, hair ripping from the roots in my fingers. Eyes closed, grinding my teeth . . . switching for silent screams, pressing my face deeper into my hands.
Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop.
I beg but nobody is listening. It is these times when I fear my sanity will escape me, that the voice that cries and hides within my mind will cower and let the violent angry screams defeat it. And then what?
I know, that I am the small voice. The calm, yet shaky voice that pleads with me to understand, to calm down, to push it out one more day. Hold on she says, just hold on.
To what I wonder. My slipping sanity, or should I looked to my abnormal eating habits . . . to drug addictions, binge drinking, and whatever other blanket remedies I have fixated my mind on in the past? I rock back and forth, willing myself to breathe. Everything I look at everyday now has that word on it. From my cell phone desktop to my computer monitor to mirrors and the ceiling above my bed. Just . . . breathe.
They don't want you, she screams. I imagine it as thought a whirlwind of hate torrents through my mind, whipping away the pleasant thoughts and leaving the carnage behind. Everything bad, everything negative, everything I fear, screaming in my ear. All day, all night. The screaming wind is nothing but screams.
The storm that has been brewing in there has finally broken. Or, was I just in a calm, much like the eye of a hurricane? I cannot decide, I can never remember what it was like before.
At night, I will myself to slip off into an unconscious state. The false promise tomorrow will be better whispering on my lips as I fade into darkness.
Fading. I feel like, I am fading away. Slowly, I lose taste of what things are really worth, the numbness that soothes over the screaming strips from me all sense of bearings. Who am I?
Who?
Why am I?
I don't know. I don't know who I am, why I am, or even where I am at times. The frustration of wanting to stand on ones' own two feet while being pulled down back into the vines of the past by crawling memories is agony. I wish for it all to stop. I cry and I beg but always there is nobody there. They think I am broken, defective, making mountains of molehills. It can't surely be that bad to be a young lady in today's age that one would want to take her own life, can it?
It's her disorder, ignore her. She only wants attention. She only begs for forgiveness you do not realize because she wants you to help her. I am sorry, I am sorry for who I am. Whoever that is. That I am the way I am.
Anxiety. Severe emotions without the capacity to control the mood in which one is. Up and down, like Manic Depression. Why then, am I not classified as depressed? Why am I just, "anxious". It's normal to be anxious from time to time. It's normal to have panic attacks once in a while. Why am I not "normal" then?
How can you conclude from various chat sessions that I have a disorder that is not depression. I feel, depressed. I always thought thats what it was. Several suicide attempts, minor drug addictions, binge drinking binges . . . self injury, eating disorders, insomnia, perpetual drive for perfection. S many things in the past that are still wrapped around my ankles. is it ever possible to be free?
And how can one pretend she is what she isn't when it is written on her face. When she has no shame in saying "I am broken", and yet trying to lead a relatively normal life. Shunned for being a "psycho" or "crazy" or "bipolar", told to take medications she does not even have . . . does not even need, then what?
The voices. They howl like you could never believe. The fear feeds the pain, and the pain feeds the fear. A vicious cycle, influenced from the outside and the inside, structured from the premise that words do in fact, hurt. Words . . . simple taunts as a child on the schoolyard to angry voices at home. The impression that failure is the only option, because you will never be good enough.
Neurotic, obsessive, complusive, anxious, depressed, lonely, and scared. Seventeen some years later, I am left afraid for my life.
-BP
