• queen_butterfly 7w

    #confessionc #imor(12)

    What if not all of this is fiction? Would you still like me? You won't leave me, right?

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    I am 14 years old and I go to school each morning with a pit inside my stomach. Adrenaline fills my veins and I am ready to run. I cry when I realise I am not supposed to run, it seems my feet are doing it despite my control.

    I am 15 years old. I sit inside my school counselor's office and wonder why it is grey. A kid killed himself and they want to talk to the rest of the students, as if they can undo the boy's suicide. When my school counselor asks, I tell her I do not know why the kid killed himself. I didn't know him, he was older. "Why did he not want to live?", my school counselor does not answer. He asks me how I'm feeling and I tell him today I feel like nothing. I do not understand how people can feel like nothing. He asks me if the ground under my feet is solid and I panic and say "Yes, I can feel it." I don't like the look he gives me, I think he knows I'm lying.

    I am 15 years old. I wait outside of the classroom while my teacher talks to my parents. I try to listen in but can only catch glimpses of the conversation that don't really make much sense to me. the suicide - we're afraid - therapist. The only part I can clearly hear is my teacher saying we fear there might be something wrong with her. When my parents come out, they tell me it was nothing but my mother's eyes are red.

    I am 15 years old. I sit on the yellow chair in my therapist's office for the first time and tell her about how I count my days in colors. Blue is for the days I cry and white is kind of scary because it feels like nothing and black is so loud that it makes me want to punch myself. He asks me if I always want to punch myself and I say only sometimes, on black days. On white days too, because it makes me feel like something instead of nothing. "What about blue days?", he asks. "No, not blue days, on blue days I feel like everything. It feels like there is no in between."

    I am 15 years old. I sit on that same yellow chair 4 days later, only now there are 2 more people in the room. My parents sit quietly and my dad chews his nails, a habit he used to have when he was young. My mom looks like she's about to cry. I pray she doesn't. My therapist talks about the possibility of this becoming more than a one-time thing, as they'd told me beforehand, we play a question game and by the end of that session, I am diagnosed with post traumatic stress disorder and social anxiety. He says my depression is triggered by it. They are big words and they send shivers up my spine. It is the first time I've heard them, but it won't be the last.

    I am 15 years old. I have been reading on social anxiety. It can be heritable, apparently. I think I may have gotten it from my dad, but his is undiagnosed, he never needed a therapist. His social anxiety did not have suicidal tendencies or the potential to kill him, his anxiety wasn't all-consuming, it didn't define him, it wasn't his ending.

    I am 15 years old. I tell my therapist I think I've had a panic attack, and when he asks me how it feels, I can't come up with anything. I cry because I think i'm faking it. He offers me a tissue and assures me I am not, but I do not believe him.

    I am 15 years old. I write down everything I can find about depression on the internet. The sentences are not always accurate, but one says I feel like I was never alive in the first place and I run my fingers on it again and again because it makes me feel seen.

    I am 15 years old. My best friend calls my name on a black day and I forget that's what I'm called. I forget she can see me. I forget I exist. I answer and she calls me again and again and I answer and she asks me where I am and I tell her here but it comes out like a whisper. She will not be my best friend for any longer if I keep forgetting my name. It is the first time I make myself bleed.

    I am 15 years old. I show the tiny scratches to my therapist and he explains how it's not a nice thing to do. He says I do not deserve to hurt. I do not tell him that I am selfish; the reason I did it was so I could know if is bleed, to make sure I exist. I know I do not deserve to hurt.

    I am 15 years old. I realise my brain tricks me into thinking things that are not true, but I can't tell when it stops. I can't tell the truths from the lies. I deserve to hurt. Who is telling me otherwise?

    I am 15 years old. I believe my brain is stupid but my therapist says it's just different, I think different is stupid. My friends don't understand stupid. My friends have been calling me a freak and I don't understand why I keep calling them my friends. But if I stop calling them my friends, I'll be alone. No one wants to be friends with someone who is afraid of them.

    I am 15 years old. My therapist asks me if I want to punish myself and what kind of question is that to ask a 12 year old? but my anxiety doesn't ask. I don't know, I say, sticking my fingernails into my palms. "You're bleeding," he says, and I know. I like the way it feels. Don't do that, he says, and I say okay, and do it anyways. These days I don't care about anything at all.

    I am 15 years old. My therapist asks me about the boy's death in my school and I say I still don't understand. He had the choice in front of him, he had the opportunity to live, why did he not take it? We're not asked if we want to live or not, right? We're just thrown in here. I learn that most people want to live and I get mad at whoever ruined it for me. I want better. I want better. I want better. I-don't deserve better.

    I am 15 years old. My therapist thinks I should use medication for my anxiety and depression. My mom cries in the therapy session this time. She asks the question I was thinking. "Is she really that bad?" It feels like a punch to the gut. Am I really that bad? Why "she"? Why "I"? Shouldn't it be "it"? I don't listen to the side effects of the drugs. I spend the entirety of that therapy session repeating to myself "I am not my anxiety I am not my anxiety I am not my anxiety". When I go home, I want to write it in blood, maybe I really am that bad.

    I am 15 years old. I take the medication for the first time and spend the whole day in bed, throwing up. My mom keeps sniffing and I hate her for it. I hate how she acts as if her daughter has died, maybe I am dead. I think I'm dead. I'm not breathing, how can I keep breathing, I want to die. Oh god, I want to die. I stand up and my sight is blurry but my mind is so certain. I start to walk but my legs give out. I fall and my mom rushes to my side. I tell her I want to die and she says this is my medication talking and I say no, no, it's me. Mom, you don't understand, all of this is me. You can't separate me from the anxiety, from the wanting to die. My mom holds my shaking body down as I cry and I can't remember the rest of the first few weeks after starting my medication. It turns out it was the wrong dose for me, but it awakens something in me. The feeling of wanting to die doesn't leave.

    I am 15 years old. Some days I am afraid to leave the house because crossing the road is too dangerous and some days I want to walk in front of moving cars. Some days I want to stick my hand in boiling water and some days I don't feel anything at all. I learn so many new terms. Dissociation, intrusive thoughts, suicidal tendencies, they are so scary, but I'm beginning to get used to fear, it is slowly turning into everything I know. Fear is shaking hands and breaking bones, it is a body that keeps on bleeding, even when you put a bandage on it. Fear spills out of the pores and onto the floor and it evaporates and I inhale it again and the process keeps repeating itself, it is never-ending. I'm so tired.

    I am 15 years old. I don't think the boy who killed himself in my school ever had a chance.

    I am older now. I have panic attack after panic attack and I have still not gotten used to them. The sweat in my forehead is so fucking uncomfortable and the scars in my hands and arms are so fucking ugly. I'm so angry all the time, but most of the time I'm still nothing. I finally understand the boy in my school. I wondered why he didn't make the choice to live but I understand now what it takes to make that choice. I finally understand how you have to make that choice each morning when you wake up and each night when you go to sleep and each second you breathe on this earth. I finally understand all the fucking sacrifice and the blood and the tears and the sweat and the plans and the feelings and the black abyss of nothingness it takes. It's exhausting but there are these moments that make it so worth it. Someone understanding me doesn't feel triumphant, or earth-shattering, but it feels warm. It feels like a chance.

    ~some days, living is the bravest thing I can muster