I keep telling myself that it’ll get better; that it takes one step at a time, if I don’t think beyond today. But it’s hard to believe myself (and the many people who have told me that I’m strong, that I can get through it) when I go to bed hoping that maybe, I won’t wake up in the morning. When I open my drawer and wonder just how many Advil would it take? When I hit snooze and roll back over to sleep, hoping that I can escape into my dreams for more than one night.
Before you freak out, I’m too cowardly to actually swallow those pills. I just morbidly daydream about what would happen if I did. It’s so hard to put my feelings into words, because I’m not trying to get your attention. I’m escaping into writing, because that’s what I do when I’m not well.
And I’m not well. Not by the widest stretch of imagination. My dreams have reached that point where I’m almost afraid to close my eyes and sink into that oblivion, but still, I welcome the frightening world my head creates for me. It’s easy.
I’m afraid to venture from my room, but I’m more afraid of the darkness that lingers in my bed. It’s soothing to relax into it in the dark room, but my bed has become my hell, while it also becomes my haven. I get suffocated by memories every time I put my head to my pillow, when my knee brushes the cold wall, when I inhale the smell of my blankets.
I’m running out of pretty words to describe how I feel, and I’m getting to this point:
It fucking hurts; I fucking hurt, being me fucking hurts me. There’s something wrong inside me and I can’t fix it; this feeling, this darkness, this elusive pain keeps ducking its head and crawling deeper into me.
I don’t know how to cope; I’ve never learned how. I keep pushing everything further back, adding more to what I have to deal with someday. Just scratching the surface is like slamming a finger into a nerve; I feel utterly helpless when emotions flood over me. How do you cope with yourself if you hate yourself? I’m second guessing everything I’ve ever held as a fact.
I want to get back in bed because everything is simple; my mind does all the work. But I force myself to get up, I force myself to dress, to eat, to shower, to go to class. I force myself to smile at people who smile at me.
More mascara: less tears. Pull yourself together.