The Art of Crashing

I feel it creeping up on me, casting it’s dark shadow. My thoughts are already wandering to places I don’t want to go. I go anyway. I have to, it’s a form of self punishment I think I deserve. I never stop to question it. The questions start. I ask myself “Why doesn’t my sister call me back?”, “Am I that bad?”, “Why does my dad leave the room when I’m in the middle of a sentence?”, “Why does it hurt so much to be ignored?”, “Why am I trying so hard when no one sees it and I feel the same?”. The mental pain turns physical. My chest aches like there’s something missing. An emptiness that can never be filled. Sometimes I can occupy myself so I don’t think. Lately this doesn’t work as well. I told my doctor no more new medications. I’m tired of being an experiment. The last one was so horrible I thought I was going to die. It’s brand new to the market and begins with a B but I can’t remember the name. They haven’t even done all the studies on it. I’m too tired to do the withdrawal from the Viibryd. It’s almost as bad as heroine withdrawal. These meds are all the same.

With me having severe malnutrition and kidney problems I’m probably not going to absorb much of them anyway. My white blood cell count is very low throwing everything off. Yet no one can tell me why. I’m sad, unhappy, grieving, and I have to pretend I’m not. If I don’t my family will get mad at me. I’m not trying hard enough. If anyone thinks I want to live this way, lonely, scared, disregarded, than they are the fools. I would give anything for a world of sunshine and kindness. A hug I have not had in years. Human contact. I tear up at the hair dresser because I’m not used to someone touching me with kindness. But again I have to pretend. No one wants to be around a sad or negative person. The mask goes on.