I used to be a wallflower. I would sit back and watch people and mimic their movements. How to talk, how to walk, how to breathe, how to live. I became a compilation of any person I had ever seen who smiled like they enjoyed their life. I became a compilation of emotions I did not have.
This isn’t to be sappy. This isn’t to be pitied. I’m a girl who doesn’t know how to be ‘normal’. I’m a girl who is stuck, or trapped – really, in her own mind. There are days where I feel real, where I can smell nutmeg and feel raindrops on my nose and feel comfort beneath blankets. I live through a TV sitcom that I have never seen and laugh with people I’ve built in my head. But there are days where my heart beats so fast I think I might choke. I wish I would choke. I sit on my hands because my nerves are alive and their one goal is to claw at my face until I bleed. Muffled sounds in my head become whispers that become voices screaming that my place on this planet is a waste of space and if I try to fight back my nails will rip apart my thighs until they’re too thin to carry me . There are monsters in my head who have stuck around longer than any friend I’ve ever had and I worry if they’ve created my personality and who I’d be without them. If I’m left alone for too long I’ve been told I become catatonic. My insomnia is made up of inner demons who play poker in my head and shoot thoughts around the room. A day can only be as good as they let it.
I’m doing well. I can still breathe okay and have happy moments. No one understands my mental illness and that’s okay. I think I can handle it alone. I try to, anyways.
I just want to make inner peace.
This is not for pity. This is not a call out post. I want people to know. Loud noises scare me because of PTSD. I’m always to blame for arriving late to places because my demons told me no one cares. There are days, weeks that go by where I feel high as the clouds and everything is flowers and I can’t imagine how I’ve been so sad for so long. There are nights where I lie awake until the sunrises and wait for someone to wake and help me slip beneath the sheets. I feel like I’m raising a toddler, relearning how to act in front of people. My brain is slow and my thoughts move fast and my comfort comes from a cat and ratty sweatshirt. I wish I had someone who could help me walk and teach me to stand until my mania arises again and has me ziplining through life.
I’m okay, though. I’m okay because I only have myself and I’ve learned to be okay with that.