Mar 2017
To the girl who says, "This is feels like torture," as she does a few chores around her house to help her parents out
Or the boy who says, "Your cute when you blush," to a girl who's hands are shaking and her knees are buckling
That isn't torture and she's basically having a mental breakdown and all you can pick up on is her ****** features
Torture isn't helping out
Panic attacks aren't cute
Torture is when your depression and your anxiety manage to fight and work together at the same time
Torture is when you are forced to go somewhere other than your room by your mom who is constantly telling others that the reason you don't want to leave home is because of the wifi when really it's because the voices in your head are at war
And yet you still smile and laugh and nod and agree to the accusations she's making about your actions
My anxiety makes me that frightened girl in the beginning of this poem I'm starting to regret making because who would ever listen to me and my feelings
My knees buckle and my hands shake
I rub my palms together in an effort to wipe the sweat away
I try to avoid eye contact because I don't want you to see my emotions and give me pity
I don't want pity
I want you to understand
I want you to listen
Torture is thinking that your friends are talking bad about you behind your back because they hate you because how can someone care about me when I don't care about myself
Torture is wanting to **** yourself but realizing that your too scared to end your suffering because you think that you deserve the pain but you still want the pain to go away so you try self-harm but you can't press down hard enough because you are weak
You are weak from all the fighting and the screaming and the suffering in your mind alone
You are tired from the things people say.
For example,
"You need to calm down." Or
"There's nothing wrong with your life." Or
"Take a chill pill." Or
"Your just doing it for attention." Or
"Stop faking it." Or
"I know how it feels. I was in the same pit you're in for two days a while back."
My answers to those are: I can't calm down. My mind makes me unable to. Every day feels like I'm trapped in a small iron birdcage. Don't tell me to calm down. I know there's nothing wrong. But my mind makes problems like a textbook and I don't know how to solve it because it's math class and we're trying to solve riddles and the teacher is teaching a song and the students are doing sit-ups. There are names for the pills I'm supposed to take. They're called anti-depressants. But I can't build up enough courage to go up to my mom and ask for her to get me some because then I'll have to describe what I'm feeling to a professional I don't know to get my chill pills and I lie to them after a week and they say I don't need the chill pills because I'm fine. I thought they were a professional. Shouldn't they recognize the signs of when someone is lying about feeling happy? And why do you think I do this for attention? I don't want to feel this way. It's not like puffy bloodshot eyes are attractive. I don't want a pity date either. And for your information, if I wanted to fake something it would be a smile or a laugh or generally happy feelings. Oh wait, I already do that and I do it because of people like you. And no, you don't understand. Your two days is nothing to my two years.
Of course, I only say this in my head.
In reality, I stay silent. I let them have their way.
I do this because my anxiety tells me they won't care and that I shouldn't stand up for my depression.
That's torture.
Because at the end of the day, when I'm lying in bed at 2:30 am, finally feeling my eyes droop down to sleep, my anxiety and my depression stop their war to hold hands and say, "You know, we did a really good job messing up her day. Let's do it again tomorrow."
And so the war starts again after only 3 hours of rest.
That is torture.
Or the boy who says, "Your cute when you blush," to a girl who's hands are shaking and her knees are buckling
That isn't torture and she's basically having a mental breakdown and all you can pick up on is her ****** features
Torture isn't helping out
Panic attacks aren't cute
Torture is when your depression and your anxiety manage to fight and work together at the same time
Torture is when you are forced to go somewhere other than your room by your mom who is constantly telling others that the reason you don't want to leave home is because of the wifi when really it's because the voices in your head are at war
And yet you still smile and laugh and nod and agree to the accusations she's making about your actions
My anxiety makes me that frightened girl in the beginning of this poem I'm starting to regret making because who would ever listen to me and my feelings
My knees buckle and my hands shake
I rub my palms together in an effort to wipe the sweat away
I try to avoid eye contact because I don't want you to see my emotions and give me pity
I don't want pity
I want you to understand
I want you to listen
Torture is thinking that your friends are talking bad about you behind your back because they hate you because how can someone care about me when I don't care about myself
Torture is wanting to **** yourself but realizing that your too scared to end your suffering because you think that you deserve the pain but you still want the pain to go away so you try self-harm but you can't press down hard enough because you are weak
You are weak from all the fighting and the screaming and the suffering in your mind alone
You are tired from the things people say.
For example,
"You need to calm down." Or
"There's nothing wrong with your life." Or
"Take a chill pill." Or
"Your just doing it for attention." Or
"Stop faking it." Or
"I know how it feels. I was in the same pit you're in for two days a while back."
My answers to those are: I can't calm down. My mind makes me unable to. Every day feels like I'm trapped in a small iron birdcage. Don't tell me to calm down. I know there's nothing wrong. But my mind makes problems like a textbook and I don't know how to solve it because it's math class and we're trying to solve riddles and the teacher is teaching a song and the students are doing sit-ups. There are names for the pills I'm supposed to take. They're called anti-depressants. But I can't build up enough courage to go up to my mom and ask for her to get me some because then I'll have to describe what I'm feeling to a professional I don't know to get my chill pills and I lie to them after a week and they say I don't need the chill pills because I'm fine. I thought they were a professional. Shouldn't they recognize the signs of when someone is lying about feeling happy? And why do you think I do this for attention? I don't want to feel this way. It's not like puffy bloodshot eyes are attractive. I don't want a pity date either. And for your information, if I wanted to fake something it would be a smile or a laugh or generally happy feelings. Oh wait, I already do that and I do it because of people like you. And no, you don't understand. Your two days is nothing to my two years.
Of course, I only say this in my head.
In reality, I stay silent. I let them have their way.
I do this because my anxiety tells me they won't care and that I shouldn't stand up for my depression.
That's torture.
Because at the end of the day, when I'm lying in bed at 2:30 am, finally feeling my eyes droop down to sleep, my anxiety and my depression stop their war to hold hands and say, "You know, we did a really good job messing up her day. Let's do it again tomorrow."
And so the war starts again after only 3 hours of rest.
That is torture.
