Some Parts of The Truth

This morning I woke up to a panic attack, hearing the voices outside my door, and trying to suppress the ones in my head. This afternoon I woke up wishing I couldn't feel how heavy my body was against this cheap mattress making my neck stiff. I woke up wanting to go back to sleep despite being 2pm.  As I layed there small specks of sunshine protrude through the gaps where the curtains meet in front of the cold glass window, forcing my eyes to water.  White static buzzed in the tips of my fingers where I wished they would fizzle up to my ears and fling through my brain to put me back to sleep. The voices I could hear this morning were still outside my door, only new pitches and tones and different accentuations on the same words.  I know these people and their names and the way they talk; there's nothing different than any other time they've spoken. Except now as I lay here wishing I was deaf, the words that seem so harmless rip open my chest and stab into my lungs. I know those words are not for me, but I am also a 'she' and I was also 'here yesterday' and I know that my name is not one of the few they were saying but of all things my mind could overlook, it was that. I couldn't help but take every word I could hear and assume it was for me, while screaming with myself at the same time. These thoughts are irrational, irrelevant, in disarray and I can recognise that, but I can't get them to stop. They come and go as fast as my blood pumps. 

I can't do this; I need to get out of this bed, out of this room, out of this building. Anywhere, just away from the voices triggering all of this. I crawl myself out of the sheets, in the mirror I stare at the black marks under my eyes, I rub at the smudged mascara until all that's left are the same black circles since last week. I rip at my hair with the bent bristles of my brush, coat my eyelashes black again and pull a fresh shirt over my head. I pack my bag with the junk I know makes it too heavy and stand at my bedroom door, shoes on, bag strap over shoulder, phone in hand. I just stand there for what feels like an hour trying to breathe, trying to make my fingers reach for the handle, thinking of how I'm going to get around the people outside these walls. Thinking about what facial expression to use, whether to say Hi, Hey, or Hello, or to not say anything at all and just smile, but will it be a teethy smile, or a closed smile? Will I even smile at all? What am I going to do with my hands?   It is five metres from my bedroom door through to the front door, but today it was a marathon and it feels like my ribs are broken. 

I wish I could say that days like these never happen, that it was just a once off and after I made it out of that front door everything was back to normal. But if I were to say that I would be lying. I would be lying like I have been for some time now.  I haven't been honest with the people who ask how I am as if I'm too scared of upsetting someone else instead of talking about what's really going on. As if I'm so ashamed that some days my mind is not my own, and as if I'm scared that telling someone I'm struggling will make them think less of me. And as if I'm terrified that people will see me differently when they know I am one of the one in four people worldwide who suffer from a mental health condition.

Some days there are things I need to write about, words and feelings and sentences that I can't help but to form from the taps of my fingers and the curves of my pen. It's like when your heart is set on writing about one topic, it is near impossible to write about anything else.

Always,
em.