This bed is an island in the middle of these four walls. As soon as my foot touches the floor, I'll drown. I'll suffocate in the anxiety and uncertainty and loneliness. There's no lighthouse to guide me home. There's no rescue boats coming to save me. I'm stranded with pillows and blankets and the thoughts that keep me awake at night.
I could learn how to swim. I could learn how to float away from all of this. But my tired body aches. My bones are heavy and I find it hard to remind myself to breathe some times. There is no quick fix. Despite what people say, I know I won't ever wake up and feel completely satisfied with my life. I know I can do better. I can be better.
So I guess that just means I'm not trying hard enough. Or I'm trying too hard. I don't know which it is. I don't really know much at all honestly; there's so many questions and I don't have any of the answers.
Tonight, he asked me "What happened to you? You were so happy and living the life you wanted and now you're kind of scaring me. What happened?"
And that's the thing, I don't know.
I don't know what happened.
I don't know what changed.
I don't know anything.
All I can think is I want to go home but I don't know where that is. I'm trying to find some peace and I'm looking in all the wrong places. It's like a never ending game of hide and seek but I don't know what I'm looking for or if I'll ever actually find it.
So I don't know what to do.
I just don't know.
2/6/17
sleeping pills and sleepless nights
It's past midnight. It's dark outside. Most of the world is asleep. I'm sitting on a bed watching the minutes tick away. I don't feel tired. Sitting next to me are a handful of pills. They're supposed to help me sleep. No matter what I do though, I'm always tired.
If you looked at my search history, you would know I'm not okay. If you saw me playing dead on the couch all day, you would know I'm not okay. If you counted the times I've let myself cry in the last week, you would know I'm not okay.
But this isn't a cry for help. When someone is calling for help, they want someone to hear them. I, on the other hand, shut down. I fold into myself, making sure my mess doesn't spill out from between my clenched teeth. I smile and nod, gripping my hands into white-knuckled fists.
I am not going to tell anyone. I can't tell anyone. I can't tell anyone that I only feel in control when I'm looking down into the white porcelain bowl where I just poured the contents of my stomach. I can't tell anyone that I wish I had sped a little more so that truck that ran the red light wouldn't have just scared me but made me permanently breathless. I can't tell anyone that I've recited my lines for my final performance when I tell them not to miss me and that I and everyone else will be happier this way.
It's almost been 19 full years. 19 years and I still can't fix myself. 19 years and I still can't decide who to listen to, the devil or the angel. 19 years and I'm still fighting but I don't know what for. I wish I had better reasons for being sad, for being lonely but I'm just your average messed up kid. I don't want to spend the rest of my life like this because I know there is so much more out there.
The world is beautiful and full of magical and mysterious adventures and discoveries. The colours of the sky, the power of the ocean, the feeling when you make someone laugh, the purring of a cat, the atmosphere of fog, the taste of soy chai tea lattes, the euphoria of reaching the top of a mountain, the smell of new clothes, the warmth of the sun baking your skin, the joy in a room of people praising God. Life is beautiful and inspiring. It lights the creativity in my soul. But, you see, that light can only reach so far.
The darkness of fear and anxiety seeps in at the edges, like ink spilled on a fresh sheet of paper. I can try to clean it up the best I can but it always leaves a stain and each time it gets darker and darker. I'm running out of space on my page. I know there's a lot in my life to be grateful and continue fighting for but I don't think I'm strong enough to hold my demons at bay.
So this is my problem: I love life but I don't want to be alive.
This is the Rubik's cube that I keep twiddling around in my clumsy fingers, knowing I don't know how to solve it but wondering, if by some miracle, I will. Eventually, though, my fingers will get tired, my head will start to ache and I will set it down in frustration, giving up the fight.
I have a problem. I can't solve it. Maybe someone out there can. But they're not here. So I guess it's just me and my pills for now.
If you looked at my search history, you would know I'm not okay. If you saw me playing dead on the couch all day, you would know I'm not okay. If you counted the times I've let myself cry in the last week, you would know I'm not okay.
But this isn't a cry for help. When someone is calling for help, they want someone to hear them. I, on the other hand, shut down. I fold into myself, making sure my mess doesn't spill out from between my clenched teeth. I smile and nod, gripping my hands into white-knuckled fists.
I am not going to tell anyone. I can't tell anyone. I can't tell anyone that I only feel in control when I'm looking down into the white porcelain bowl where I just poured the contents of my stomach. I can't tell anyone that I wish I had sped a little more so that truck that ran the red light wouldn't have just scared me but made me permanently breathless. I can't tell anyone that I've recited my lines for my final performance when I tell them not to miss me and that I and everyone else will be happier this way.
It's almost been 19 full years. 19 years and I still can't fix myself. 19 years and I still can't decide who to listen to, the devil or the angel. 19 years and I'm still fighting but I don't know what for. I wish I had better reasons for being sad, for being lonely but I'm just your average messed up kid. I don't want to spend the rest of my life like this because I know there is so much more out there.
The world is beautiful and full of magical and mysterious adventures and discoveries. The colours of the sky, the power of the ocean, the feeling when you make someone laugh, the purring of a cat, the atmosphere of fog, the taste of soy chai tea lattes, the euphoria of reaching the top of a mountain, the smell of new clothes, the warmth of the sun baking your skin, the joy in a room of people praising God. Life is beautiful and inspiring. It lights the creativity in my soul. But, you see, that light can only reach so far.
The darkness of fear and anxiety seeps in at the edges, like ink spilled on a fresh sheet of paper. I can try to clean it up the best I can but it always leaves a stain and each time it gets darker and darker. I'm running out of space on my page. I know there's a lot in my life to be grateful and continue fighting for but I don't think I'm strong enough to hold my demons at bay.
So this is my problem: I love life but I don't want to be alive.
This is the Rubik's cube that I keep twiddling around in my clumsy fingers, knowing I don't know how to solve it but wondering, if by some miracle, I will. Eventually, though, my fingers will get tired, my head will start to ache and I will set it down in frustration, giving up the fight.
I have a problem. I can't solve it. Maybe someone out there can. But they're not here. So I guess it's just me and my pills for now.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)