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Everyday is like the movie Twilight: where Bella sits at her window, the camera is spinning around her and everytime it makes its way around: the title of the month pops up in chronological order and it goes through them every time it circles her. But she just sits there, in an almost comatose state. That is what it feels like but days not months. Everyday starts and concludes the same and I just sit here in my bedroom in slow motion while life continues on. I’m still stuck in that dark bedroom with nothing but the shadows and in that bathroom on the floor from my OD attempt, all alone, like always. With no one noticing my pain. I’ve never been the type of person to show that I’m struggling, but there’s been so many signs and it’s not like I care enough for them to notice. But yet it still cuts deep that they never have. Not my friends, not my parents, not my therapist: and ofc it’s mostly my fault for never telling them, but still. I just wish for once someone would notice how severe it’s always been. 

I honestly thought that after all this time they might happen to notice my intricate movements: the way my smile never reaches my eyes, how my left arm used to be covered with sparkles from the remnants of my makeup, how my smile lasts longer than other peoples before I return to a bland and flat expression, the way I always cover my stomach with my arms when I sit down, the way I cross my leg over the other and love to “hide” under blankets as a way to show how reserved I am, and lastly how I almost never take a quick time in the bathroom and always happen to come back happier and more cheerful than when I went in. I guess I’m the only one who notices and studies my every step and doesn’t minimize myself to normal behavior. What hurts the most is that I can never go a day without being self aware, yet when I have hallucinations, paranoia and anxiety attacks I can’t differentiate between reality and what’s all in my head. I was never and still am not the one to draw attention to my actions, especially my bad behaviors; however, I’ve noticed that no matter what I do to my body or how I act towards others. I’m being limited to “teenage angst.” For 4 years in highschool I mastered the act of biting my arm just perfectly enough to never draw attention to myself, and at one point it almost became a game to me: to see how much I could bleed and burn before anyone would notice. Not that I ever cared to make it obvious but a small part of me wanted to know. So depending on how much aggression I’d show my arm, determined how often I did so. But most of the time I did a little bit each class period and you know what I picked up on: that no one even cared to figure out that I wasn’t okay mentally speaking. My first ever therapist was the one who brought my mom in for a “two on one” meeting, where we discussed my suicidal ideation. My mom then cried and afterwards yelled at me in the car for “bombarding” her and lying at Sophia’s funeral when I said I would speak up if something were wrong. Now I’m not the person to complain about my mental struggles unless they are serious so when I first suggested a therapist, it should have been made clear how bad it was. But like always I’m the only one to notice. I’ve dealt with so many therapists, psychiatrists and psychologists, but not a single one so far has noticed how bad the depression has been for me and how pessimistic I am, about any and everything. So I just sit here day after day now, in an almost comatose state and pretend like my mind isn’t screaming at me so loudly, that it sounds as though a person were yelling at me. My mind tells me the most horrendous things and it truly is my own personal bully. “Telling me how dark, ugly, weird, monstrous, evil, unpure, infected, crazy, unlogical, and mostly how inhumane and un-normal I am: which happens to hurt the worst. Because since I was old enough to communicate, I was non-verbal by choice. I used to point and gesture with an added grunt. I was late to speaking so much so that doctors thought I had cognitive and learning disabilities. But that just wasn’t true. But back to my point, since then I’ve always concluded that I was different from everyone else, I had inappropriate reactions, imaginary friends and was a “loner,” which picked me apart from people my age. I grew up realizing that I should just self-isolate because no one cared to throw a fit about me being left out, or in the corner reading. So I grew up learning it didn’t matter what I did, or what actions I took. Because it always ended up with me being treated differently from the rest. I remember when I was little, I used to hold myself back from going pee, because I hated to do normal tasks and even into adulthood I still hate them. But nonetheless, I also self isolated so I wouldn’t have to deal with my horrible symptoms out in public.

No matter what anyone says, I could have stopped her from comitting. She was like the smoke scent in the wind, stopped long enough to leave an impact then disappeared with the wind: into nothingness. Day in and Day out I will blame myself for her timed demise. My eyes will fill with tears just thinking about it. Her parents, friends, and closed ones will be without her, because I didn’t step in and help. I could have, but I chose not too. I should have seen the signs, because they are were painted all over me.

After she did so, It opened up a whole new world for me. A world where sadness was depression, where darkness wasn’t just depression but death, where death was an escape from my horrific life. But I didn’t know I could take pills, before she took a gun out and did an permeant ordeal.

Sophia, you were beautiful, but this has thoroughly killed me.

I don’t know when it all started, maybe at conception or birth, but it’s been a horrible and ridiculous ride through the highest parts of hell and the lowest parts of heaven. I wish, I wish, I wish.. I could say more, do more, be more. But I’m paralyzed, I’m scared of living and dream of death. How fucked up must this all be, for it to become an obession, an oasis, a relief for me. Where did it all go wrong? please tell me how to fix this, fix myself. I feel dead, and I don’t know what to do, be or say. I feel as though if I breathe the wrong way, I might send myself into a full blown psychotic episode. Or if I go out in public, hang with friends, go to college, breathe, speak, move, that it will happen, again, and it scares me half to death. I can’t do anything wrong or it will all come cumbling down on top of me and suffocate me more than it always does. Maybe none of this is real, and I’m already in a psychotic episode and none of this is truly how it’s supposed to be. Fuck, I hate this, I hate myself, I hate life and living. I’m scared to live but I’m scared to die.

Death is my obession, my oasis and my peace of mind. Since early childhood and adolescence It’s seemed as though I was up in the sky, looking down on myself, going through the dreded and painful motions, movements, and tasks of being a “human being.” As I’ve suspected normal people feel sadness here and there, but never enough depression to the point that blowing their brains out and biting their arm till blood is driping down their arm, would be a relief, of sorts. Little did I know my life from the ages of 3-9 would forever change the course of my life. It’s permenantly sentenced me to life without parole, for I am a disaster of an abnormal monster. I see and hear dead people, see myself morph into a shadow in the mirror, and have weird perceptual experineces: seeing the room spinning around me, the walls closing in, my heart feeling like it’s going to explode out of my chest and splash all over the walls, thinking I saw a shooting going down, seing figures and eyes in the dark, and so much more. That I don’t ever wanna speak about. It feels so unreal to the point where biting no longer provides me relief from the hallucinations and Delusions. Where I no longer receive gratification, pleasure, relief, happiness, or satisfaction from participating in society, doing normal human tasks, faking normal behaviors, and faking emotions to seem “okay” or “better.” to satisfy the needs of the people around me.

He knows I’ve been bitter, maybe it’s because I carry my baggage until it takes flight. “You never try, you fail at everything, I wish you were never born.” That was said by my own mother and I don’t disagree. I haven’t tried because I’m afraid if I do, I’ll give life one last try, which will of course lead to my demise (death). I’ve been called every name under the umbrella and I rather have my favorites: “failure, crazy, disappointment, and selfish.” I’ve tried to mask my symptoms from the age of 3 years old. But I failed at masking the thousands of signs that were so obviously present, that it’s sickening that no one noticed, but my 3rd grade teacher. I had selective mutism from the ages of 3-5 years old, why? Because I feared saying a single word, or breathing in any way was too much for me to bear. I’ve hated doing and having normal human tasks, motions and movements since before I can remember. Having to brush my teeth, make my bed, study in educational schools, eat, drink, pee, sleep, and the worst is having to do it all over again the next day. If it were up to me, I’d take a gun to the head right now, but I’d just chicken out of it. For the worst part of me is even though I have received zero satisfaction, gratification, or relief from socializing, eating, companionship, relationships or touch. I’m still not as monstrous as I believe, I care heavily for others, more than I’d ever care to admit and more than I have ever worried about me nor my safety. Masking is a tool I do, why? Because I care too much about the wants and needs of other people, “they” my family, friends and animals just want me to be happy, normal and seem better. So that they can move on with their miserable lives. Why can’t I just like a normal miserable life? Why must I receive life in prison without parole? Why must every second of my life feel like it’s my last or like I’m dying over and over, being resuscitated and thrown back into this foreign body. Maybe that’s why I see and hear dead people, because I’m not living. Maybe I should just jump on cars in traffic, kidding, but seriously there’s nothing much I could ever do to make this any worse. I’m constantly getting sicker and on the verge of total and complete insanity, but I’m not as monstrous as one might believe. Me, as I might believe. Not only that, But I have weird perceptual experiences that affect my behavior, facial expressions, speaking, tone and voice. These include but aren’t limited to: thinking I saw a shooting happen at my neighbors house, feeling like I’m floating outside my body, feeling weird and like my body is foreign, feeling taller or smaller than normal, see the room spinning, see the walls closing in on me, see dark matter and me morph into shadowy people, and hear and see dead animals and people talking, screaming and pointing at me, hear alarms going off downstairs at my parents house and more I wish to not discuss; for it scares me shitless, like a bone shaking scariness. But if that’s concluded as fine, then yeah I’m fine. Just run-of-the-mill, fine.

It creeps up, at night, in the shower, in bed, and during times it shouldn’t. It rather comes and goes but makes it presence known: the voices, hallucinations, depression, intrusive thoughts, flat affect, lack of interest/satisfaction, the indifference, and it begs to stay. It latches onto me and keeps me weighed down, so much so that I can barely breathe or hold back tears. I can’t remember a time when I felt okay, when I wasn’t constantly looking over my shoulder, crying in the shower, having panic attacks on the bathroom floor, and running. Most especially running, all I do is run away from every singular thing in my life: emotions, feelings, thoughts. I’ve been told by too many professionals “you’re not sick,” “you seem to be handling it well,” “you are so well rounded and doing well,” “you are the easiest person I’ve treated.” Little do they all know that It’s false, I’m not healed, well rounded, handling things, and most importantly I am so beyond sick, that I am beyond saving. I am no longer a living human being. I am a diasterous monster labeled as a “human being.”

I thought by now someone or anyone would notice my intricate movements: how I am never showing emotions other than sadness, how I leave the bathroom happier than when I went in, how I wear longselves when I’m getting bad again, how it’s fucking killing and ripping me apart, shred by shred, and how I am only being tied down to this realm by my neck with a silly and thin purple yarn string.

I forgave them for opening wounds, handing me with zero care and affection and for giving me an aftermath, diagnosis. But I condemned them in my head: by growing up, graduating college, moving out and never speaking a word to them again. Maybe that will show them not to mess up a child.

He was tall, broad but in a bigger way, charming and persuasive, angry, alcoholic, and mad. She on the other hand was an outcast, delicate, skinny, brittle, persistent, and had too many friends(never made sense to me). I’ve never trusted someone with that many friends. They were 7 years apart & argued regularly, to the extent that it became the new normal.

They never agreed on anything other than the idea that I was a crazy lunatic who wanted attention and never once received it. So she escaped into her bedroom and never came out. They have both called me every negative descriptive word under the umbrella/table.

Maybe just maybe in another universe: I had loving parents who could regulate their emotions, angry tendencies and behaviors. Maybe in another universe I wasn’t told that I was wished to be never born, and that I was a failure who never succeeds. Maybe I would never have hid in the bathroom crying while my father tried to kick and bang the door down/open a million times over again.

They quite literally took everything from me and they would never admit it.

Most of the game is unfamiliar. I do not know where to go and what to be or say. I am slowly drifting away and am merely tethered to this deminison by a silly little yarn string. I fear one day it will be cut, leaving me stranded in a space of insanity. I fear I may never fully come back to who I was before, all of these symptoms became apart of me. This lifetime has taken everything from me. I guess I’m forced to breathe another second, and live another day full of dreaded severe major depression. “youre over exaggerating.” No, I would rather take blunt force trauma to the head, then live with the hallucinations.

I’ve never had a real birthday, not one I’ve enjoyed for that matter. It always means so much to me, then it ends with tears. Every damn time. I’ve started to notice that my parents fake their emotions and feelings towards me, especially during my birthday. Like it’s their chore to be the nicest possible person to me. But I rather them be real, it saves me from having big expectations. I may have my father’s eyes, his indescribable need to please every thought in his head, but not his alcoholic abuse, my brothers need to self-isolate to recharge every bone/ache in his body, and my mom’s height, but maybe just maybe: I’m sure we’re taller in another dimension.

The only subsequent place where memory still bothers me, like an itch that can’t be scratched. Is the night I tried to take my own life. I was made out to be apart of the madness of the world, compared right with murder, suicide. and with “abnormal” people. Had my parents placed a raid on all knives, medications except those prescribed (those were monitored and counted), and of course all weapons and tools made out to be used for self harm. I was basically sentenced to a life without enjoyment of cooking, baking, being able to light my candle collection and art; with monitoring, control, and loss of my old life and habits (which I clearly held dear and close to me). That was about the right side of hell for me and I’ve never been the same since, correction life has never been the same since. I never used to jump for joy with excitement for those things listed above, however, it gave me a sort of clarity from my messed up mind. Now it barely gives me satisfaction, when I can do them while being monitored and watched. Oh and I can’t use the bathroom downstairs without being alerted by my parents. The same bathroom I threw up in 4 times from a zoloft overdose, that night. The same one where I was passed out in for a long time, before I threw up, got up, and told my parents what had happened. I don’t even know how long I was in that bathroom for, but it will be remembered for eternity. Not just for my parents and I, but my brothers eternity too.

From my earliest childhood memory of self selected mutism, I remember my dissatisfaction with life, people, and having shared experiences with others. For my perceptual experiences weren’t normal, like everyone else’s. I can tell you exactly how this all started. When I was 8 or 9 I became severely paranoid that someone was watching me. I hated being outside, locked myself in my bedroom and rarely came out of it. I never told my parents about this, but one night I woke up, looked out my window from hearing an alarm going off, got up, looked outside and when I went to go back to bed, I turned around and that’s when I saw and heard it: when it called out to me “Lizzie”, it sounded almost manly. That’s when I turned around and there it was my “imaginary friend.” The shadowy outline of a man: tall and broad. But it scared the shit out of me so I slept with lights on for the rest of my time in that bedroom, thinking it would stop. It didn’t and rather only got worse. That wasn’t the only thing that began the story for me. At that same age, about a month earlier I woke up to hearing bell alarms coming from downstairs, so as a good Samaritan I came downstairs, and that’s when it started circling me, coming from every direction. I couldn’t pinpoint the location, I ran to the doors, put my ear up to them, but then it would move to a different location. That’s when I came to the conclusion It was all in my head and from that night forward I’ve been slowly going insane. They have been a part of me since then, (the voices and hallucinations). The only thing that has been constant in my life, besides the dreaded depression symptoms and anxiety for I was afraid of being out in public and had panic attacks due to the hallucinations themselves. I like to refer to them as people for that’s mostly what I see. I waited and waited, and waited. For anything to change, but since that night. I have been hearing and seeing things. It wasn’t just shadow people, but rather real people (alive or dead), it was Sophia, my mom, my dog, cat, grandma and grandpa. They would stand over my bed, stand in my doorway, be in my closet while the doors slowly creaked open, in the mirror behind me. And they would talk to me sometimes. Mostly just screaming at me like in pain, or at me. For reasons I’ve never been able to explain.

For once I am ugly, I’m just now admitting to the disgust. For I see wickedly behind those eyes. Admiring them for who I thought I saw.

I Hurt myself and shed my layers. Because the lust for comforting others,Was infinitely stronger.

Of all the ones I’ve met, You were by far were the worst of them. Trusting you was like trusting paper, messing with you, cut deep.

Maybe someone who’s deeply misunderstood. Is secretly from heaven.Who moved fire and land to be brought here. Is that person you?

I’ve always been more of a fool than a girl. Living in the darkest parts of people. Obsessing over the beauty of being depressed. Talking the ears off of any bystander who would listen. Delicately speaking words into existence, by praying up to a god, I failed to love properly. I’m a petal who yearns for their thorns. To be made into an armored person, who wears her heart not on her sleeve. Sweetly addressing concerns and creating boundaries

Instead of being tied down by the weight of compassion. It simply and utterly begins within me.

The moon takes risks like you did. Did you tell her about us in the dark? How does my pain taste? How do the stars strike you now? I won’t be waiting in your absence. 

The first beating of my heart, An infant unsupervised. Maybe I restarted this. Maybe I caused it? Can’t kick the viciousness, out of my hometown. Stained it in masking tape and yellow lines. It’s only how I feel. 

Oh I didn’t know it then, How messed up it had been. But I realized it now. I can’t resurface the past. Without dredging up still waters. But I happened to notice,Where were you? When I called out. When I was busted, bleeding on the ground. Can you feel it now? The cold breeze, My passing. The lowering to the ground? Halloween has officially, come around. 

I can control my emotional challenges and reponses to the point of overindulging in bad habits, but I can’t seem-to manage lust. Lust is not just the basis of wanting sex, but rather the lust for a good life, a normal brain, good mental health, good physical health, being able to maintain good hygiene and most importantly: not being a failure when it comes to taking care of things, like pre-k up to college education. I feel lust in an bone-shaking way, a way where I lust for the oxygen to be taken from my lungs. I feel it like normal people feel positive emotions. Longing for something to hold, touch, see, and be.

I fear for my safety, my sanity and the care and wellbeing of myself, physically and mentally. I fear I may never be normal again, that this heavy weighted diagnosis will be the end of my story, I’m no stranger to depression and anxiety, but this has taken ahold of me and won’t let me breathe a single breath. It’s a humming sound inside my head and it gets louder every second, the volume knob is being turned up. And all I have to show for it is that I’ve been hospitalized and a few scars on my thighs. I wish I could show someone, anyone what I’m going through in pique condition and in simple termed details, but my brain refuses to let me. I fear I can’t come back from this, that this diagnosis of depression is too heavy of a burden for myself to carry; especially in this lifetime. I’m not scared any more of people knowing about it, because it’s apart of me now or maybe it always has been. And judgement is sure to follow me everywhere I run to, but fuck it. I am more me than I’ve ever been and if that means I will be persecuted, uneducated, unemployed, unfriended, then I guess I am just going to have to deal with that.