It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I remember there was a time when I was a confident, young soul, out and about, having little to no care whether tomorrow would bring more pain or more tears. There was no question of if I could bring myself to wake up the next day, bring myself to take a shower, bring myself to eat . I had all the freedom in the world, and was not trapped within the confinements of the dark, horrific, mental walls I now find myself in.

It’s a pain of a different sort, one that does not bleed red, one that doesn’t leave bruises of black and blue, unless they’re of my creation. The pain is unbearable, nonetheless. Is it difficult to describe? I’d compare it to having your soul sucked out of you slowly by a dementor. Except for this time the dementor is within me, it’s a part of me, and I sit and stare while it devours me, not in an instantaneous painless snap, but it’s stretched out and straining. But even when my heart’s crying out a rainfall, and my heart’s shrieking in pain, no one’s hearing it, no one’s seeing it. It goes on unnoticed, ignored, overlooked.

I wish I could say I felt different, that I was better, that every ounce of negativity wouldn’t hit me like a truck, would pierce me akin to a poisoned arrow, only if it were that easy. I wish that I wouldn’t sleep at 3 in the morning imagining the worst scenarios, wouldn’t wake up and be disappointed that I’m still here, and wouldn’t cry every time I feel alone. It’s ironic, however, since it’s me doing all the distancing, crawling into a little hidden cave, the salty water, and rough branches to keep me company.

It hurts to cry, physically, almost as if there are no more tears left to cry, as though I’ve exhausted the little supply I had. It hurts to look in the mirror. Looking bad doesn’t bother me anymore, I can’t seem bothered enough to care, will it make me think any less bad of myself? Doubtful.

Every day, I wake up in a maze, carefully constructed by a wicked, wicked mastermind, I’ve tried to figure the way out, I tried for days, months, maybe even years until I realized there’s no way out. A Labyrinth of Torture, with the minotaur waiting for his prey and a tired maiden sacrificing herself.

Is it too late?


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s