Months without feeling, days without a voice, years without knowing who I am meant to be. Hoping a substance can reawaken the person I used to be, someone without pain, without misery. The bottle never helps, in fact it makes it worse, believe me, I’ve tried to make it work. The smoke just makes me think more, so that makes it even more miserable...I would never try any harder substance, I’m depressed, not stupid, nor suicidal. I like living, I just want the darkness gone.
It’s as if it is part of my DNA, I was born with this curse of looking into the darkness, being entranced, mesmerized, like its painfully beautiful to look at, Yet my mind desires to be a part of the bright gleaming lights of the world. The voice in my head tells me it’s a lie. Those lights will burn out the moment I come out, how do I tell it to stop? I fear it may win over time, I’ll give in, and I will become the darkness that lives within me.
I found one substance that helps. It cannot be swallowed, burned. The louder it goes the lighter I feel. Every pound of drum my heart beats along. Every note relighting what was burnt out inside me. Vocals breathing life back into me. Preaching of life better than what it is. The dark creature that lives within screams for me to listen to it, to obey, that the magnificent melodies playing on repeat are lies. That they will not matter once I go to my grave, no one will sing agonizing, tear soaked songs when I’m lowered into the earth for a final rest.
The self-righteous demon of hellish torture has sunk its claws into me, I don’t think it’s ever going away. I scream and cry for help, but the demon within drowns me out with the words I’m fine. It has taken over, I’m a prisoner here, and how do I get out? Curled up into a ball, panic ensues, crying, punching, while the demon is on the surface smiling repeating “I’m fine, I’ll be okay, thank you for asking”. The only time I come to light is when we are only at night and it lets me out to look at what I am becoming. I don’t know the girl in the mirror. She isn’t me. She’s a lie.
I go back and look at my room, a safe sanctuary, the demon tells me, it’s safe to be in here, go ahead be you for abet, it has places to be, just remember that it will come back, it’s a part of me as much as I’m apart of it. I collapse, crying, scared. Its whispers won’t go, repeating to me its malevolent words, of who I am, and who I will be. When will this torture end?
Usually pain isn’t bad, I manage, push through it. That’s all physical, things you can see, or feel, take medicine, put heat or ice, and it’s gone within minutes. This mental pain of darkness, of fear (isn’t that funny? Scared of your own mind? Ha!) It is bigger than me. I can’t just soak and be better, the monster will say to drown in the sorrow it has created for me. Tylenol? Not a chance, I’d be in the nuthouse quick if tried.
Some days are bright, today is, hardly any darkness, but I know it’s there, fuming to be released, maybe it is the environment at home? Maybe it’s how I give in when at home instead of fighting like I do in public? Maybe this is who I am meant to be for eternity. Fight or give to the darkness?
I\'ve read the studies, I know the percentage of young adults with depression, but I’ve had this monster for years. I know how miserable my family and friends would be if I decided to give in. Yet if so worried, if so caring, why wouldn’t say something to me, or do I put up a believable front? Have I always had a poker face?