Trigger warning:mentions self harm and suicidal ideations
On my best days I scream from rooftops. On my worst I become a shell. The opposite of everything I want to be. I wallow in my thoughts, flounder in my tears, allow myself to become prisoner to my illness. I smile and say ‘I’m okay’, I laugh, I flirt, I am the definition of beautiful madness. And then when everyone goes back to their lives I turn off the lights and bury myself under bedsheets the same way I would be 6 feet under.
And I convince my brain that I’m not okay, that I need to try my coping mechanisms and so I run my hands under cold water and draw on myself with markers till I look like artwork. The world’s definition of beauty. But my eyes betray me. Red not from hash but from war. I am fighting my own mind.
It says Drown. Recovery says Swim. I compromise Float. In between both.
It says Cut. Recovery says Colour. I compromise, Both. I cut anyway tinting my skin red.
It says Stop Breathing. Recovery says Deep breaths. I give short panicky painful I- Can’t-Breathe ones.
“The Civil War!”
“The war we fought against ourselves.”
“You actually studied this?
“I’m living it.”