Status: The end. Thank you all so much for reading.
Wrists
insane .
College normally only takes up ⅓ of my day. I buy myself a tall cup of black coffee before class starts—it helps keep my mind sharp and focused. If that alone doesn’t help, I buy a monster from a store down the walkway from the coffee shop, hoping that it’ll at least keep me sane until classes are over for the day. The same blond girl from across the row from me would come up and ask me simple questions, sometimes only give me a lovely smile, but most of the time just tell me to have a good day and that she’d see me tomorrow.
When the sun was out, I would buy another cup of steaming black coffee, walk along the college buildings, and lose myself in my mind. But then I would realize at the last minute that my mind is the last place I’d ever send someone to, so I would pull myself back together and watch the boys play soccer on the green lawns. The wind through the trees, the sun in my eyes, and the delicate tweeting of the birds couldn’t hold me back from getting lost inside myself again, though, so I would end up finding something to busy myself—whether it be studying, reading my favorite novel for the 12th time (the cover was beginning to rip at the back, and the pages were worn from so many dog-ears I’ve made in them), calling a friend just to go on about nothing, or walk up to someone I knew.
But soon not even that was enough to save me from myself; I could feel the frustration and jittery-sensation creeping throughout my body. I had to keep myself sane—I had no other choice—I had to find something else to occupy my body, my mind. But I could still feel it coming, no matter what I did. It was overwhelming. I had to drive home then. As soon as I would get home, I’d kick off my shoes, let my backpack fall, and rush to the comforts of my room. I had built my own world in there; a world full of stacks and stacks of books, magazines, portable games and gaming systems, and forgotten cups that were once full of coffee or tea.
My bed was my true haven. Sometimes I would wrap myself in my baby blue duvet and fall right asleep; other times it would take me almost four hours, which I would try and speed up by popping some sleeping pills. But bed could also be my worst enemy—what does one do while they’re trying to force their body into a deep slumber? Think. Get lost in their heads. I don’t want to get lost in my head; I want to instantly fall unconscious, not caring if I opened my eyes again in the morning, because then I would be saved.
I hated the moments when my head made me grow insane. No one liked me then—no one probably likes me now. It was difficult for my family to control me at times like those; I couldn’t even control myself. At times like those I just had had enough. My mother, father, and sister didn’t deserve to deal with me; I was nuisance, staining the image of their perfect family. I wanted to change that, though. I didn’t want to be the stain—I wanted to perfect my mind, my soul, my body. But I couldn’t with a mind like that; I could pretend, but I, deep inside, knew the truth. They all knew the truth, whether they wanted to admit it or not.
I was scared for me. I don’t pity myself at all—I’m just scared for me. What had I become? What will become of me? Will life return to its normal state; a state I only hear stories about, but never remember? Was I ever in a normal state? The thought of being like this from birth only brings depression. And depression only brings out the worst in me.
I make a cup of green tea when I’m depressed. And when I’m doing lifting the cup to my lips, I lower it slightly, and stare down at my wrists.
When the sun was out, I would buy another cup of steaming black coffee, walk along the college buildings, and lose myself in my mind. But then I would realize at the last minute that my mind is the last place I’d ever send someone to, so I would pull myself back together and watch the boys play soccer on the green lawns. The wind through the trees, the sun in my eyes, and the delicate tweeting of the birds couldn’t hold me back from getting lost inside myself again, though, so I would end up finding something to busy myself—whether it be studying, reading my favorite novel for the 12th time (the cover was beginning to rip at the back, and the pages were worn from so many dog-ears I’ve made in them), calling a friend just to go on about nothing, or walk up to someone I knew.
But soon not even that was enough to save me from myself; I could feel the frustration and jittery-sensation creeping throughout my body. I had to keep myself sane—I had no other choice—I had to find something else to occupy my body, my mind. But I could still feel it coming, no matter what I did. It was overwhelming. I had to drive home then. As soon as I would get home, I’d kick off my shoes, let my backpack fall, and rush to the comforts of my room. I had built my own world in there; a world full of stacks and stacks of books, magazines, portable games and gaming systems, and forgotten cups that were once full of coffee or tea.
My bed was my true haven. Sometimes I would wrap myself in my baby blue duvet and fall right asleep; other times it would take me almost four hours, which I would try and speed up by popping some sleeping pills. But bed could also be my worst enemy—what does one do while they’re trying to force their body into a deep slumber? Think. Get lost in their heads. I don’t want to get lost in my head; I want to instantly fall unconscious, not caring if I opened my eyes again in the morning, because then I would be saved.
I hated the moments when my head made me grow insane. No one liked me then—no one probably likes me now. It was difficult for my family to control me at times like those; I couldn’t even control myself. At times like those I just had had enough. My mother, father, and sister didn’t deserve to deal with me; I was nuisance, staining the image of their perfect family. I wanted to change that, though. I didn’t want to be the stain—I wanted to perfect my mind, my soul, my body. But I couldn’t with a mind like that; I could pretend, but I, deep inside, knew the truth. They all knew the truth, whether they wanted to admit it or not.
I was scared for me. I don’t pity myself at all—I’m just scared for me. What had I become? What will become of me? Will life return to its normal state; a state I only hear stories about, but never remember? Was I ever in a normal state? The thought of being like this from birth only brings depression. And depression only brings out the worst in me.
I make a cup of green tea when I’m depressed. And when I’m doing lifting the cup to my lips, I lower it slightly, and stare down at my wrists.