Realization

[Disclaimer: I am much more okay now than I was when I wrote this.]

* * *   

The awareness slips in on shadow feet and questions.

What is the cause of the sleepless nights?
Is the ceiling really so fascinating that you’ve had to stare at it for three hours after waking?

For several days running?

The small things that aren’t getting done—who isn’t doing them?

How can the results of hours of your own work and exploration seem repellent to you?

What did you do to your arm?

Are you truly not troubled by your failures?

What did you do to your arm?

“No,” you protest, “but I’m all right. It’s not what it looks like.” Do you know of anything else that looks like this?

What kills is how insidious it is. How you don’t even notice that something is wrong until there’s blood everywhere and, just like that, you’ve broken a five-month streak of no new scars—No, not even then. Even then you make a conscious decision not to acknowledge it. “It’s nothing. I refuse to reinforce this behavior with attention.” It’s nothing. You’re nothing.

And you try to fight back with all the evidence at your disposal: “No, I’ve been leaving the house; I’ve been talking, taking pictures…” Mediocre pictures that no one wants to see. No one wants to hear what you have to say. No one cares, you self-involved child. You try, but— What have you not been doing? The self-professed writer who hasn’t written anything serious of her own free will for six years. Gave up on it even then. The “inspiration” who has not finished a single thing in almost twenty-one years of existence, who responds to her few undeserved triumphs with panic attacks.

The siege commences and the portcullis slams down, just as you’ve been thinking it’s past time to learn the art of unlocking doors. Remembering, anyway, the past results of unlocking. They say, they say, “I’m here for you, you can tell me, I want you to tell me,” but they never know what to do when you take them at their word; “I feel this way,” you say, and even the ones that know you best, all they have to offer you is, “Well, don’t.” And unspoken—and if you can’t help it, don’t tell me. It hurts to hear it. When all you want is, “I know. I understand. I love you anyway. I love you even though you are a broken excuse for an imitation of a human being. I love you.” Even though you hate yourself for wanting it. Even though you know exactly how they feel and why they say it, even though you’ve said the same damn thing in their situation and cursed yourself for it afterward. You don’t want to hurt anyone.

“But I decided to be happy!” you protest, and the shadows laugh and fold themselves around you. Welcome back.