I typed my way through an anxiety attack and thought it might be beneficial to share. I have not read this other than as I was typing it. Please forgive any typos, grammatical errors, etc.
Do you ever just feel so alone? Like you sit and wait for your roommate to get home, because you really need her, and she just never comes home. And you get notification after notification of her tweets, but she’s still not home. Your heart starts beating. Faster. Faster. And your legs start to go numb. And your ears start ringing. Suddenly you realize you’re on the floor, then on your bed, then in your bathroom throwing up. Now you’re sobbing on the cold linoleum, and you realize that you have no one else but yourself. Your mom says, “Cheer up.” Your friends say to get over it. Your coworker says you’ll make it through, But right now, you don’t want to be anymore. I don’t want to feel anymore. I don’t want try anymore! I can’t “cheer up,” Mom! It won’t go away! I don’t want to die all the time. Sometimes I can make the pain seem not so bad. I can put on a smile at work, tell the customer to have a nice day. But I’m dead inside. Hollow. But now my façade wears thin. The rafters holding up my roof begin to rust from the incessant flow of tears. Store Open flashes. Flashes. But I am not open. Not ready to serve. Not ready for this. I can make a list off all the shitty things in my life. But that’s too taboo. Too negative. Well let me be negative for God’s sake! Tell me it’s ok to want to die. Tell me there is no light at the end of the tunnel. Tell me the world just might be better off without me. Or don’t. I wont believe you no matter what you say. My brain tells me that this is my reality. That this is the only way I can exist. I’ve watched 100 TED talks, all saying that my brain is wrong. But I am my brain. My brain is me. So am I now wrong? And how am I supposed to feel when I am told that I am seeing my life through drunk goggles. How am I supposed to live through the pain? Day in. Day out. Day in. Day out. I can hardly function. My clothes pile up. Not dirty, but clean, fresh out of the dryer. I haven’t touched a hanger in almost a month. My bed has become an escape. But the dreams I have feel far to real. Life becomes nightmare. Daydream becomes reality. The doctors say to take my medication, but the only medication I want runs through my veins. I want to forget myself. Move on. Become someone new, someone less me.