Penny for my feelings

“Would you go to the end of the line for me? Would you kiss these scars of apathy? I trust you like the rising sun, but you deceive me every single second. I am not afraid of you, yet I stand here petrified. I find myself no longer able to look into my own eyes. I succumb to the monster you have made me. I feel the weight of your hold on me.”

I am a full-blown addict, the pain is my drug. The burning lasts a moment, but the relief is satiating in a masochistic modus. I feel my mind being pulled apart at the seams like an ancient blanket, so fragile and thin that it is almost as if it were birthed from the delicate tendrils of an angel’s soft hair. It’s agonizing, excruciating even, yet I never break away. I believe in life, honestly, but I prefer the comfort of this darkness. Fear has seized me into a suffocating chokehold, my organs swiftly losing the oxygen they require to stay alive. I scoff at that word—I cannot bear to even pronounce its solid syllable, ‘for my desolate mind will commence the hope-filled notions that I must keep at bay. I set my standards low, keep my acceptances lower. I oftentimes picture the grotesque image that would be present if I were to appear on the outside the way that I feel. Granted, it would be too much for some people. The mockings and affronts would feasibly extrapolate tenfold. Aberrantly, I would not have anyone left to jester with my hewn travesty other than myself. For as long as the sun has shone, as long as these shallow breaths have kissed my lips, my identity has been you. I cannot fathom what is entitled with being free. How, I inquire, am I to be certain that I am not already? Who is the judge of what all convoys my freedom, as they say? Sometimes, I find myself weighing the idea that perhaps my current state of existence is not so depraved. Conceivably, I ruminate, I will find in time that I can grow content with this feeling.

This past week was wholly comprised of a few minor progresses in which I experienced brief moments of actual hope and a wee bit of strength to endure this battle, accompanied, thereafter, by nasty repercussions on the Voice’s behalf. Most days were spent lying on the cold linoleum of my bathroom tile, watching trails of blood stain the corners of my worn, gray cardigan. Most days were spent with my solitude, only possible due to the termination of my phone’s battery life and an immaculate effort on my behalf to arrive in/depart from my classes in record time. I truly began to recognize just how physically, as well as mentally, exhausted I truly am. I found myself out of breath and in pain after a less than 100 foot walk to Biology, and the energy required to focus has virtually depleted my confines. It is in these moments that I truly feel the fear that I am going to die. It is in these moments that I realize just how sick I really am. If money were not a factor, I do believe (and I, briefly, am in control enough to say this) that I would admit myself to an inpatient program in Arizona. I’ve heard they have wonderful results. Or perhaps Philadelphia. I just fear that maybe I would be the exception. Oh, who am I kidding anyways? College already has me in depth.

Every bloody week I return to the place that holds the “answers.” The treatment comes in the form of compassionate, stern voices and hours of bodily-function/stability analysis. Three years it has been since I first crawled over the threshold. Three years I have spent in their sanction, numbly getting by as they warn me of my nonexistent actions. It has been three years since I started to “find the reasons why,” and still tonight I do confess what I told them just the other night: nothing will change until I allow it. If I cannot make myself better, how can I expect anyone else to give a bloody care?

But that’s just it;

I don’t.

~ by candyshele1204 on April 22, 2012.