The Disease That Plagues Us All

I slide down the wall in my room and put my face in my hands. I try to keep the sobs in, pushing my hands hard against my face as if that would help to keep them in. I take a deep breath, as the voices in my head continue to attack me. Stupid. Ugly. Useless. Pathetic. Loser. I scream trying to drown out those negative labels, the ones that I so strongly believe to be true. Those voices always drown out the two or three trying to tell me what’s good about me. I somehow always end up like this; sitting in my dark room feeling utterly hopeless. I pull my legs closer to me, ignoring the string from the bruises.

I closed my eyes tight, trying to picture a place where I could be happy and smile. I just remember what my mom says to me, you always follow you every where, if you don’t love you then you will always be unhappy. I lay my head against the wall of my room and take a deep sigh, trying to level myself. I have to collect my thoughts and sort through all the positive ones. I have to focus on the good, the good, and the good. I hit my head gently on the wall, why is the bad so much easier to think of? I rub my temples and force myself off the floor and head towards my bed. I throw myself on it and welcome the soft embrace of my quilts. My phone starts to buzz from a new text. You are awesome, my best friend says, sensing my state of mind. I give a slight smile and respond thanks. See some people think you are cool, so why can’t I believe that? I bite my lip and press my cell against my forehead; as if that would make it easier to focus on the good.

I take out my notebook, and scan for the page. I had written a list a few months ago, when I was in an exceptional great mood. I wrote down all the stuff that I actually like about myself. I should have been doing math problems but decided instead that it was a rare opportunity to gush about myself. I scrawled things in black pen; you could tell that it was rushed. I finally find the page and start to read the list. Smart, well that’s true; my grades are decent not the best in the class, but better than most. Funny, I always make the class laugh all the time. I get a lot of heat for it but at least it’s a good quality I have. I put the book down and sigh, nothing unique about those qualities. What makes me special? I shake my head and keep reading, decent looking, good hair, nice smile. That was scrawled in my friend’s handwriting. I saw my crush’s handwriting and my heart ached a bit, a great catch. What does that even mean?

Insecurities are normal; it’s the disease that plagues us all. That’s what my mom always tells me. Everyone, no matter how glamorous, how gorgeous, or how successful battles their inner selves about how they see themselves. I throw my notebook on the floor, and reach under my pillow. I looked at the picture of my parents; perfect smiles plastered on their faces and sigh. How can they understand? They are so perfect, so happy, so amazing. I hear a light tap on my door before it opens. My mom comes in and smiles at me. She reminds me that I am normal, that these feels are normal. She pats my hand and says she is making my favorite dinner and dessert, to cheer me up. I get off my bed and close the door behind her when she leaves. I walk into my private bathroom and look into the mirror. I start to recite to myself the list of things that make me, me. Because the only person who can cure this disease is me.