Sep 2017
I think what people don’t understand about what I’m going through is that it’s not a connection I’m able to bond with someone over. It’s not like asking about the weather.
I ******* hate the weather.
I mean I love the weather.
But how do you talk about the rush of swallowing rain drops like honey, sitting at the bottom of your tea…to someone who’s protecting their eyes from the sun?
See, my anxiety isn’t cool.
Or beautiful.
Or poetic.
It’s my boss asking how I’m doing and me telling her “I’m tired, but I’m doing good”. It’s her asking if I’ve ever tried melatonin at night to help me sleep.
It’s me saying “Yeah, once or twice” and meaning “I’ve been taking narcotics since I was 16, but I had to ween myself off of them because I’m too nervous to call the pharmacy back”.
It’s not that I don’t sleep.
It’s that I won’t sleep.
Because I can’t sleep.
Because these voices plant seeds in the dark patches of soil underneath my eyes and I have to let them grow or else I might die.
It’s not that I haven’t tried sleeping, it’s just that sleeping is hard when you know you have to wake up the next morning.
People don’t understand that wearing the same hoodie for 4 days and not leaving my room for 3, isn’t because I’m lazy or unorganized.
It’s because I haven’t found the motivation to look for the keys that unlock the chains around my ankles that have me shackled to my bed.
Please don’t ask me to go to lunch with you, I won’t be able to sit and have a conversation with you for longer than 10 minutes before I say “I have to go to the bathroom, I’ll be right back”, and that isn’t me using the toilet for anything other than bowing my head in shame, as I throw up the poison and acid in my stomach that I pretended was food.
You’ll ask me “Is that all you’re going to eat? You barely ate anything” and I’ll smile and say “Yeah I wasn’t really that hungry. I had a big breakfast….3 days ago”.
My arms are not an optical illusion.
But if you look at them long enough, I’m sure you’ll see the words to my poems written between the lines.
Don’t ask me about them because I’ll want to tell you about how I never listened to my mom when she told me not to run with scissors.
But I won’t.
I’ll butter it up and tell you that The Lion King is my favorite movie and that my cats name is Scar.
But you’ll tell me you never really liked cats, you’re more of a dog person.
I’m not quiet.
It’s just that most of the time I don’t have anything “socially acceptable” to talk about.
I’m not quiet, I’m not tired…well I am tired.
Jesus **** I’m always so ******* tired. But I’m aware.
I think that’s what a lot of people don’t understand.
My story isn’t written in ink on pretty piece of stationary. It’s not squeezing a stress ball because I have an exam at 8 in the morning. It’s not wearing all black. It’s not eating almonds for dinner. It’s not heartbreak. It’s not falling leaves or stars in the sky.
It’s summer, spring, fall and winter all ******* in a nest of knots, sewn together with every vein in my body.
It’s 7 journals, in 6 months with 27 suicide notes, 4 hospitalizations and a dozen different letters I’ve written to the voices inside my head.
It’s 13 pills a day kissed by bottle of wine every night.
It’s not a symbol of beauty, it’s a form of torture.
And that’s what people don’t understand.
I ******* hate the weather.
I mean I love the weather.
But how do you talk about the rush of swallowing rain drops like honey, sitting at the bottom of your tea…to someone who’s protecting their eyes from the sun?
See, my anxiety isn’t cool.
Or beautiful.
Or poetic.
It’s my boss asking how I’m doing and me telling her “I’m tired, but I’m doing good”. It’s her asking if I’ve ever tried melatonin at night to help me sleep.
It’s me saying “Yeah, once or twice” and meaning “I’ve been taking narcotics since I was 16, but I had to ween myself off of them because I’m too nervous to call the pharmacy back”.
It’s not that I don’t sleep.
It’s that I won’t sleep.
Because I can’t sleep.
Because these voices plant seeds in the dark patches of soil underneath my eyes and I have to let them grow or else I might die.
It’s not that I haven’t tried sleeping, it’s just that sleeping is hard when you know you have to wake up the next morning.
People don’t understand that wearing the same hoodie for 4 days and not leaving my room for 3, isn’t because I’m lazy or unorganized.
It’s because I haven’t found the motivation to look for the keys that unlock the chains around my ankles that have me shackled to my bed.
Please don’t ask me to go to lunch with you, I won’t be able to sit and have a conversation with you for longer than 10 minutes before I say “I have to go to the bathroom, I’ll be right back”, and that isn’t me using the toilet for anything other than bowing my head in shame, as I throw up the poison and acid in my stomach that I pretended was food.
You’ll ask me “Is that all you’re going to eat? You barely ate anything” and I’ll smile and say “Yeah I wasn’t really that hungry. I had a big breakfast….3 days ago”.
My arms are not an optical illusion.
But if you look at them long enough, I’m sure you’ll see the words to my poems written between the lines.
Don’t ask me about them because I’ll want to tell you about how I never listened to my mom when she told me not to run with scissors.
But I won’t.
I’ll butter it up and tell you that The Lion King is my favorite movie and that my cats name is Scar.
But you’ll tell me you never really liked cats, you’re more of a dog person.
I’m not quiet.
It’s just that most of the time I don’t have anything “socially acceptable” to talk about.
I’m not quiet, I’m not tired…well I am tired.
Jesus **** I’m always so ******* tired. But I’m aware.
I think that’s what a lot of people don’t understand.
My story isn’t written in ink on pretty piece of stationary. It’s not squeezing a stress ball because I have an exam at 8 in the morning. It’s not wearing all black. It’s not eating almonds for dinner. It’s not heartbreak. It’s not falling leaves or stars in the sky.
It’s summer, spring, fall and winter all ******* in a nest of knots, sewn together with every vein in my body.
It’s 7 journals, in 6 months with 27 suicide notes, 4 hospitalizations and a dozen different letters I’ve written to the voices inside my head.
It’s 13 pills a day kissed by bottle of wine every night.
It’s not a symbol of beauty, it’s a form of torture.
And that’s what people don’t understand.
But my job isn't to make you understand it..my job is to make sure I survive it
