I get sucked under the waves of varying ferocity with no sense of direction. I don’t want help and I refuse to get better.
Every waking day, it occurs to me that I don’t want to leave. My damaged body fights a long battle against my mind, both telling me different things. My friends and family see the problem, but I don’t. I look at the endless empty boxes of takeout, or I clean up after purging, or bandage bleeding wounds, but I see this as normal – I’ve never known anything else. It eludes from the change I desire to have; I’m doing fine on my own, ain’t I?
I hit a solid wall when I try to get a clear understanding of anything, so I stop trying. I am reminded daily of my flaws, reciting them to myself under my breath, hiding the words with half-hearted laughs. I’m nothing but a piece of crap and my life is a big joke. My skin is sliced open. Razor blades are bloody. There are band aids in the trash by the sink of the cold, lonely bathroom.
I must take a step back and inspect the damage. I sift through what remains of my life, never seeing the broken shards of the sanity I once had and not knowing I need to put them back together to form what it had been once before. Deep down, I know, there will always be lines to remind me of the fractures where I shakily repaired myself, so why bother?
I am forced to get some help and I am grateful for this. No longer do I hide away, make excuses, and cover my scars with long sleeves. I feel connected to the outside world for the first time in a very long time and it is an extremely liberating feeling.
I laugh, I cry, I make memories, and I finally enjoy life. I am no longer alone, hopeless, scared, or misunderstood. Every encounter is a small touch of warmth that never leaves, only burns brighter and brighter until I shine with a light I’ve never known. I want to cry, but out of happiness instead of sadness.
In a moment of clarity, I realize how alike I am to a flower. I grow in beauty, wither in sickness, and am carried by the seeds I left behind. This is my life.