If only I could bleed anxiety out. If only the wounds were on my body and not mind, you could have seen how I’m stabled multiple times each day. If only the monster in my chest attacked me from outside and not within. If only death was not abstract but embodied, you could have seen it approaching me. If only you could hear my heart beat in this un-rhythmic and strange manner, you would have realized it’s helpless banging against my chest. If only my lungs were placed outside my body, then you could see how hard I am trying to breathe.
You keep telling me that you know how I feel, but I know you don’t because if you did, you would have never told me to “just not think about it” because you see that’s the point. I am never thinking about anything. Anxiety, like the sun on a rainy day just appears from behind the clouds of pretense and burns my naked sanity. It’s just there for no reason, just like sometimes the stars fall on the earth, just like the rain falls down or the clouds collide and thunder. Just. Like. That.
If you knew how I feel, you would never tell me to just go out and talk. You would have known that walking without crumbling is too hard, you would have realized how drained I am from this inner war that you have not witnessed. I am a battlefield covered in my own red sanity, and victories mental sickness is right on top of the first horse victoriously raising the sword up and puncturing my heart. Perhaps that is why it feels like I am being torn apart from the inside.
You would have known that my tongue is too numb to form words and eyes too heavy from the unshed pains. You would have known that I am in pieces and I need to first pick myself up before I pick the right words up from the correct sentence.
If you did, then you would have never asked me to just breathe, because you see breathing involves far too many actions to be performed under the influence of numbness. Breathe in, hold, and breathe out. My lungs are too weak by that point, it just ceases to breathe but my fragile survival instinct keeps pushing it, but then my nose never really takes enough air in so I keep gasping but then leave it, you already know that right?
You know that way that monster keeps growing right at the center of my chest banging against my skin and flesh to be let out; I might just stab myself one day. You’d know how gravitational force accumulates right under my feet pulling every organ down but then something keeps pulling it up too. You know it all because you always tell me “it will be fine” and maybe someday it will be; someday when I cease.
If you really knew you wouldn’t tell ask me “why I do it? Why can’t I just be normal and happy” you’d know I am a victim not the persecutor, It’s like you are going for a walk in the path along the park, it’s bright and cloudy, it fresh and alive but then all of a sudden someone jumps from behind a tree and stabs you, And all you can do is wonder how it came there, I mean he belongs to that abandoned alley and dark passages, it’s not the right time and place for it to exist, but nonetheless you are stabbed and all someone asks you “why?” Why did you get stab? I mean hello, practically everyone would rather not get stabbed. And the worst part is that this somebody manifests itself within you and stabs you from the inside, so there you are lying on the floor possessed by pain and bleeding within, struggling and gasping but anyone does is blame you for not being happy and functional.
You see, If you knew how it feels, you would have known that nothing you do or say can ever make it okay, can’t ever make it go. But it’s okay, It’s okay to think that you know how it is because once even I liked to believe that I did too. But not anymore, I am just as clueless about my mind as the clouds are about their plight. We are both just floating, both just drifting, both just fading.