It’s Monday morning
and Dad tells me to
get out of bed and
get ready for school.
I tell him that I can’t
because the bus is
going to crash today.
Even though I stayed
awake all night trying
to convince myself it
wouldn’t happen. It
never did. But my
mind is a scratched
record stuck on an
endless melody of
‘what if’s?’ and I
can’t pull the needle
off the track. So I
don’t get out of bed.
It’s Tuesday morning
and my alarm goes off,
but I don’t leave my
house until for therapy
that evening. I tell my
therapist the school is
going to catch on fire.
She tells me it probably
won’t, it never does.
What she does not
understand is that
'probably’ can also
mean 'possibly’
and the possibilities
are endless.
It’s Wednesday morning
and I force myself to go
to school. By 2nd period
my lungs are balloons
that refuse to inflate.
My heart is sweating,
my tongue is dry, and I
remember the doctor
said panic attacks are
only temporary. But my
therapist said I have an
anxiety disorder and
depression, so I know
they won’t be going
away anytime soon.
My classmates stare at
me as I gasp for air,
wide-eyed, until I’m told
to see the nurse. They
send me home and I
don’t leave my bed
for the rest of the day.
It’s Thursday morning
and I’m too embarrassed
to go back. It’s Friday
morning and I still
haven’t found the
strength to pull the
covers off from
over my head. It’s
Saturday morning
and my mother who
lives out of state wants
me to visit. I tell her I
don’t feel well. I don’t
feel well because it’s
raining and my brain
is playing the same
image of me sliding
off the roads over and
and over andover again
while anxiety whispers
in my ear that if I leave,
everyone I love will die.
Depression told me to
swallow every prescription
in the medicine cabinet.
Anxiety told me there’s
no point, I was already
dying. Depression told
me to bleed out. Anxiety
told me to cut vertically
and not horizontally
because my mental
illnesses were a team.
They thrived off of my
ability to stay alive.
Their voices were so
loud they drowned out
the truth of my own
reality. My thoughts
lost in translation;
filtered through my
disorders before they
could ever reach me.
Sunday morning I tell
my dad I want to be
homeschooled. I get
a letter from my therapist
to give the school and
they tell me it’ll only
take two weeks. Two
months go by and I
finally withdrawal.
I spent my days lying
in bed, fighting the
urge to read labels.
Fighting the urge to
taste something sharp
with my skin. When
I was 6 I thought there
were monsters under
my bed, but by the
time I was 13 they
finally crawled into
my head. I spent
most of my time
sleeping, but one
day I woke up with
the energy to pull
the needle off the
track. In that moment
I loved myself more
than anything because
I had made it. I didn’t
have to fight anymore.
It’s 4 years later and
my boyfriend’s parents
tell me I’m not good
enough for their son
because I didn’t graduate.
I still see my therapist
on Tuesdays and when
I tell her this, she asks
how that makes me feel.
I tell her 'graduating
might be someone’s
biggest accomplishment,
but being alive is mine.’
areudirty
theartofmadeline
pixelskylines
prguitarman
germansingergirl
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
romaincrisis
dailybridgerton
