Why Do You Think

Some nights I simply cannot take it; I start to suddenly think of all the things that I have done wrong in life and let the overwhelming feeling of worthlessness trap me, squeeze me in a tight box with no escape. The box would shrink by each passing memory, and everything becomes more painful; my insides twist. My muscles hurt. I start sweating, shaking. I want to scream, shout, punch, kick, anything would do. I want to explode, I want to free myself, but I know that to truly free myself from my torture chamber I would have to end my life, but even then I'm not certain if I will be rid of these terrors. Each time I drag the blade across my skin I am able to breathe again, I feel the chamber loosen up. I feel no pain, not physically. The mental torture has engrossed me, making everything physical feel numb. I am burning inside; a flame filled with knives, trying to dig their way outside, and destroying everything inside.

My heart has been set in stone and coated with ice; beneath it, it has been shattered so many times that it is impossible to put back to its original shape. My self is hiding in a corner completely engulfed in darkness; It is impossible to find any light. The voices in the pitch black, who taken over my body, my mind, talk to me. They repeat to me everything I already know, etching it in to my mind so that I would never forget. But I could never forget how worthless I am. No one needs me. No one wants me. Not even I want me. I am an abomination to the world, something people would shun at. I am not needed, I am just a waste of space. A waste of existence. I wonder to myself every night 'Why am I here? Why am I still alive? Why don't I just end it all now?' but I can't die. I am too afraid; I don't know what to expect if I do resign from this life. Who says it doesn't get worse after this? But how can it get worse than this? The self - loathing I harbour cannot be put into words; the extent of it amazes even me.

I don't want to feel so helpless; I didn't choose to have this way of life. I don't want to hate myself this much. I don't want to cut myself. I don't want to hear voices. I just want to feel happy; I want to feel loved and appreciated, but I know that day will never come, because as long as I don't come around to liking myself, no one else will. Why should they? I am so pathetic that people should throw up the instant they see me. No one should try to get close to me, because if they do they will just be stabbed, hurt, destroyed. My demons would get to them, and there would be nothing I could do.

My parents put me in a mental institution. I am 23, yet they forced me to go, dragging my brother along. I wouldn't have given a shit if it was just me and if I didn't have such addicting urges of self - harm; being unable to cut made everything worse. I couldn't ease my pain with the smooth blade in which I have found great comfort in. The only true friend I ever had, the one that never left me, never judged me. It only helped me ease my suffering. Still I had to find a way, so I started biting myself, but the people there made checks on me that I wouldn't hurt myself. Each time they found a new bite mark that was merely inches from reaching an artery, they would lock me away, strapping me in a vest that would deem my arms useless.
Locking my brother in here as well added fume to my anger and the hate I feel towards my parents. There are many things in life which I hate; I can understand that people are trying to help me, but I choose not to, because they don't know what I am going through. I can bet my life that none of the psychiatrists have ever felt the way I, or anyone else stuck here do.

They couldn't possibly phantom the pain that just begs you to die. The voices that keep telling you to kill yourself, that had taken over your every action. The emptiness. The fear. The want for it all just to stop. They have no idea how it feels, so how can they even begin to try to help us? What even gave them the idea that they could possibly change the opinion I hold on myself? The opinion I hold on life.

Horrific creatures haunt my dreams, but yet they are not dreams. I am fully awake. Hallucinations; I had realized this without a diagnosis. At the beginning the fear would consume me; I screamed for help to anyone who was around me, but they would just give me strange looks. I pleaded for them to help me get rid of the monsters, but they kept repeating the same words over and over again ''there is nothing there.'' There came a point where I simply gave up; I was tired. I wanted to sleep, but I couldn't. My nightmares kept me up. The voices wouldn't let me. No matter how desperately I wanted to sleep I couldn't. When I was given pills, there was no escape from my nightmares. There was no way for me to wake up, to make them disappear. They always seemed so vivid. Most of the time I am unable to tell the difference between reality and my dreams, even right now I am not certain if I am awake.

I sat in the same position I did every day. I hardly ever moved; I wouldn't move unless I needed to. My back was against my bed frame, slouched, with my head resting against the cold wall. My legs were loosely folded up, sometimes one would fall, or both of them would be straight out, but my hands were always in my lap. I never felt myself blink; I was so deep in to my mind that I never felt anything that I did. I hardly remembered my actions; I was trapped in my mind, that I so desperately wanted to escape from.

My brother, Mike, would occasionally get me to talk; he would talk to me on stop in hopes to get me out of the hell I had created for myself. But his attempts were always in vain. I couldn't hear what he was saying, his words couldn't get through to me. His voice was fuzzed, just like everything else. The only thing that would be clear to me was music that I would listen to every moment I get, but there were simply times where I just couldn't do anything; my energy would be completely sucked out from my limbs, to the point where I couldn't even blink. Those where the times when I couldn't get to my music; there wasn't enough will power for me to move.

The room I spent my life in was just as dull as my life; the walls were painted in a creamy colour, or at least I think they were, once. They looked grey, sometimes I swear I could see it rotting away in corners, but I couldn't tell for sure. The wallpaper was loose at some ends, and was slowly unsticking itself from the damp concrete wall. The floor was made of wood, that once was a rich brown colour, coated in a glossy substance, that now looked old and worn away, constantly covered in dust. There was a rug in the middle of the room, tattered around the edges. Only one window in the room could be found, but it took up around 1/3 of the wall that it was on. It had metal bars on it, making this seem more of a prison than it already is. Gray, over washed curtains covered it. Underneath the windowsill was a desk that me and Mike shared; neither of us had many things on it. The only thing that covered it was a thick layer of dust; it was undisturbed. A stray chair stood next to it, owning its own coating of dust.

There were two beds in the room, both propped by each wall; both of us had simple, white bedding, that I didn't even need. The bed frame was made of cheap wood that would creak every time weight shifted around it. There were drawers tucked away in both sides of the room; it contain the few clothes me and Mike possessed. It wasn't that we were poor, that we couldn't afford to buy clothes. I just didn't need them. I would constantly switch between two outfits, not bothered by the way I look here. We are all insane anyway; our minds are too messed up to worry about anyone but ourselves.