Sometimes I wonder if I’m in a dream. That someday I’ll wake up and all the things that have happened were never real. A story I created to exist with ups and downs and twists to create a life different from whatever reality is…
It’s like staring at a wall, putting your fingertip on a mirror reflection or waiting on the edge of an abyss. You see it, you feel it, you wonder at it but is it what you think or is it less than? Are there secrets behind every shimmer of light or secrets behind every answer to a question?
Life- oh bitter sweet excruciating, exhilarating -life…
Sometimes I lay in the rain and listen to the sound, breathe in the scent and feel the drops absorbing into my skin. The wind is there wrapping and curling into everything. This is a moment, this is a pause, where faint whispers like shadowy tendrils creep through the boundaries into awaiting ears. This is a moment where I see the less than of my world.
The breaking point has been passed. The fact that I look upon the dawn of another day is a miracle and I wonder to myself how many are left? I don’t feel any strength left inside, no hope, no small flame to grasp inside the frozen abyss of despair. Yet here I sit. Not dead but definitely not living. Can I yet find the way I once danced? Can I yet remember the way to escape the grasp of void? The echoes on the walls of memory curl around like mist, beckoning. The walls are crumbling. This place is gray and sound is lost. The ravages of hatred and despair are bleeding from every place of this once sanctuary. There is no where left, there is no where safe. I stare at the dawning of another day, the silence encompassing, the numbness enveloping, and I wonder if the sun will ever reach the dark crevices of my broken mind.
Some people are born with sensitive minds, not in a whiny, pathetic, sensitive way but rather something that they try to hide to appear normal to others. Everything hurts worse, everything is felt stronger and the emptiness is more consuming. Some people are born with broken minds, others are broken later. When one lives in a world where no where is safe. Somewhere safe becomes more than a longing. It’s a consuming desire, a need. The emptiness is all there is, the only place that’s safe, but the loneliness is terrible. A longing for someone strong enough, brave enough, to handle the storm inside. To understand, to create somewhere safe that isn’t lonely, with a match to the mind. To feel arms hold tightly and feel peaceful, loved and safe. This is an impossibility. To dangle this ideal in front of someone’s face to light it on fire and watch it burn, to think that you had found it- to realize it wasn’t real, is the devastation worse then life before it?
I cannot stand the loneliness anymore. I cannot feel the empty room, staring at the walls questioning why am I so hideous, inside and out, that no one can stand it. Why is there no where safe. Crying into a pillow and looking for something to dull the pain inside. In the end some of us walk around all grown up and by all appearances seem to be functioning adults. But some of us are broken, still waiting for that moment to never happen that snapped our minds. Sometimes I feel her, the little girl waiting for the fear to end. Not understanding, not knowing, not able to control. Wondering if there is somewhere safe. I cannot feel that emptiness- that utter loneliness again, the walls staring unfeeling and silent. The darkness reaching out to comfort, but all it comes with is the coldness that can’t be warmed. There is no where safe, there never was, there never will be. If I were strong I could just go on but the silence has pressed upon me for too long, the insanity of a prison to much in my soul. I cannot, I am not strong enough to withstand that consuming loneliness and longing again. This world has no need to waste its time with me.
I used to walk alone, the only escape. The black birds would gather in the trees. I always said they’re following me, silent guardians of the forlorn.I stare at the sky and imagine wings. How it would feel to be able to change and morph into a bird. I would imagine crashing down and feeling the agony of broken wings. A tale that matched my soul. I see the beauty of the dawn, midday and dusk. See the loveliness of night with clouds or stars. I listen to the wind twisting through the trees, around everything, around me. I imagine it as ancient, a viewer of so many things that it sighs “alas”. I breathe in deep the scents of rain and earth. I feel the ache inside my chest, inside my soul. I had a head full of dreams, once believing that you decide your path. Always hoping for the day of escape and that taste of freedom. I looked at the world from a view point many others I’m sure don’t see, a view point that remained silent. I waited for the day to come that I would be out from the soul crushers and feel relief. But if that day has come the damage has wrought its curse of resentment rendering me blind. The memories too suffocating, the one who was I, lost beneath the pain.
I don’t want to feel paranoid or suspicious. I don’t want to feel stressed and exhausted. I don’t want to be swallowed up by the constant fears. Though I try to stay in the euphoric land of peace, it seems no matter what I am a prisoner to those aforementioned things. Why is it thought that these things are easily controlled? As simple as on and off? If there is a secret tell me, if you have suffered to the unyielding powers of depression, anxiety and phobia, and survived to find a sunrise. Then let me hear the escape. It seems it only gets worse as the years go on and not less. I feel myself spinning into a place I hoped to never go. Losing more and more control. Seeing the shadows grow and the strain in my head deepen. The harder I grasp for the sunlight, the harder I stretch for the peace, the hope, the farther it seems to go.
It’s not just anxiety, it’s panic. It’s not just fear, it’s terror. Paralyzing, body tingling, unable to breathe, terror. It’s irrational, but strongly convincing. It may not have logic, it may not make sense, but the effects and the strain are quite real. You can tell yourself you’re fine, you can tell yourself everything is alright. You can keep on pushing through years of it tormenting the weary brain. How much can one person take? There is only so much a mind can handle before it starts to snap.
The spiral down is unending. Consumed by the panic, consumed by the constant feeling of terror. It’s like everything is looming, casting dark shadows on what you see. You feel so small and powerless, feeling forced to be this way.
There is no escape, there is no end. I feel it breaking- my mind. I can not deal with the strain, the constant rush of panic, the constant fear.
Today I don’t want to get up. I don’t want to do what I need to do, don’t care about things that I wanted to do. I just want to stay in the darkness and pretend I don’t exist. Trying to think of nothing so I don’t feel. I don’t want to think, I don’t want to remember, I don’t want to explain why I feel the way I do. Tired of hating myself, hating all the different shades of who I am. I want to drown it all away but I can’t. I have to force myself to go through with all I need to do. I have people depending me, who rely on me to take care of them. I have to force myself to get up, knowing I will have to get up again tomorrow and so on. I don’t want to get up. I don’t want to be numb to make it through the day. I don’t want to feel the dark heaviness pulling on the edges making every step and every choice a struggle. But I do.