***** I wrote this a couple of years ago ******
My hands are shaking. Why? Why do I want to hit my head repeatedly? Oh right…it is Monday morning. Damn it. Rage, at myself, sweeps through my body. “Do your homework, do your chores, tell him you like him, talk to your friends” part of me cries. “For some reason people like you! Just try harder.“But it’s drowned by clouds of all consuming panic. The clouds have voices, louder than any other thought, and they are shouting, “They are pretending, nobody could like you. Don’t embarrass yourself, he would never want you. Your family only likes you because they have to.” And all hope drips down my cheeks and splashes into the sea of tears accumulating around my pillow. I want to rip my skin off. My body is a prison. I feel disconnected to it. Maybe that’s why it doesn’t hurt when I smash my fist into my head over and over. Any intelligence I may have is restrained by my crippling anxiety. I don’t understand how I am even a functional human being. How can I go to school and smile and talk to people, then go home and calculate how painful it would be to jump out of my bedroom window or how many pills would it actually the to get me into the hospital. It’s fucked up, but the thought of being in a hospital in physical pain sounds comforting. I’d much prefer it to the mental torture that happens every day of my life. I just wish somebody knew. Nobody can help, it’s all self inflicted, but I wish I wasn’t so alone. I wish I could call someone late at night instead of gorging myself on peppermints for the sole reason of making myself sick. Help. I can’t go to sleep. Help.