It is 2am, but it’s bright outside. It is not the sun. The house is quiet. Four other people move through the space like dolls, whispering silence and invisibility. They are not real.

Their whispers eventually make their way through time, until it is 2am, and I hear them. I know I am not special. I know that there is no real reason for me to feel this way. Their judgements cut through my ears. I know that I am just a spoiled girl who can’t understand everything. I know I am not trying hard enough. I know.

Calmly, placidly, I get out of bed. I cannot feel my toes as I walk to the kitchen. My feet are numb as I reach for the scissors. It only takes a moment, and I don’t feel a thing as it happens. There is not a regret or doubt in my mind as I pull my hair onto one shoulder. I don’t know what expression has taken over my face. I don’t feel it. I am cold. I am calm.

The scissors are cool against my neck. It is 4am. It took a decade for me to descend the stairs. There is no regret. My hands lose their feeling as the blades chop my hair in half. The strands turn to needles, cut into my legs, as they fall to the ground. I don’t feel anything.

It is 8am. I am standing in front of a small mirror, just enough to see my hack job haircut. I can hear screams, whispering. They cut my ears. I know.

They say ignorance is bliss. They are right.

It’s been a while now. It’s long since past I’ve stopped taking the cure. I’m happier now. I can feel beauty blooming. I can see colors again. I am out of touch with reality. Nothing’s the same, and everything’s different. It’s difficult to explain, and I can feel the wrong words fall from my tongue like spiders. The spiders crawl into their heads and spin their webs, and they believe their lies.

I thought I was over this. I thought that these little pills would help. I thought that they would keep the sadness at bay, where those clawed hands are too far away to have another swipe at my mind.

Why is it back? Why do I feel worse than before? When will it end? Will it ever? 

I’m tired of every day feeling like a chore. I’m tired of waking up and putting on a smile for the people around me. I’m so tired of this constant sadness hanging over my head like a pendulum blade, just waiting to be released to tear through my thinly coated protection. It’s there—I know it is—whether I feel it or not. I’m just so fucking tired of it.

No one understands. No one gets how I’m afraid to be alone, but how every essence of my being screams at me to push people away anyway. Don’t let others get too close, and they wont disappoint you; you wont disappoint them.

I am so damn tired of putting up with all of this. But I’m so pathetic that I can’t even say or do something about it. I write stupid blog posts on the internet bitching about my feelings. 

Sometimes it feels like something is boiling up from inside me. It’s a monster, making my arms and legs shake. It wants to come out, it wants me to open my mouth and scream. My arms shake because I’m trying to hold it in. It wants me to pick up anything—everything—and hurl it across the room, ruin it, rip it to pieces. It wants me to pull my hair out, dig my fingernails into my skin until it leaves marks. My heart beats faster, I grind my teeth, and I go for a run to let it out. Just for a little bit, I let it out.

I run as fast as I can, until my lungs are wheezing and my throat is about to close up. I run until my face is streaked with tears, until my legs are weak, until I feel nauseous. I’ve made it tired again, so the monster rests again.

Other times it feels like the life is suddenly sucked out of my. Instead of trembling, my arms and legs sag. I’m tired. My chest feels like someone is pressing heavy weights to it. It’s difficult to breath evenly because suddenly I’m sobbing. The tears have come before I have even felt them. My face is wet, and I can’t do anything else but lay down and cry. I feel so weak, so pathetic. I begin to hate myself.

But I cannot cry for long, because it will make my eyes puffy and I don’t want anyone to know that I cry a lot. So I bite my lip until the pain is all I can feel. I pinch the back of my thighs hard. The tears stop, even breathing returns. I wipe my eyes and face, make sure nothing is red or swollen, and plaster a smile on before going back to pretending.

I finally worked up the courage to tell my mom how I’ve been feeling about everything. She assured me that I would get taken to the doctor. She said that there’s medication that I can take for help, there are therapists I can talk to.

I refuse to believe that it is even possible to make this feeling disappear. Pills and people are not going to help. There isn’t a way they can convince me that there is something out there for me. I’m socially awkward, I stutter, I’m ugly and fat, I’m fucking worthless. The only thing I am even remotely good at doing is sleeping.

I wonder if things would have been better if I was someone else.

The worst feeling in the world is wanting to talk about how you feel, but having no one to talk to.

There are people who would hear me, but they wouldn’t listen.

They would act worried, but they wouldn’t care.

I feel like I’m stuck inside my fucking head.

I literally feel like I’m trapped.

It’s driving me insane. I’m losing my fucking sanity.