Different colored minds

Behind the mask

ALIANA POV

I'm in bed looking at the dull ceiling above me. I know I have to get up. I know today is worth it. Today is Friday. There's a football game today, I have a test in third period, and the party is tonight... I can feel it in my head. The thoughts. You should take a knife and stab yourself in the neck. The thoughts hit like a hammer against glass, leaving me with shattered fragments. No one loves you. You're an extra. The side thought of anyone's mind. My fingers don't move. And my heart is rattling in my chest. I roll over onto my side, and look at the wall to the opposite side. Take all of your meds right now and end this. What's the point in living? No one will ever get you.

I can do this.

I have to do this.

My hands pull the covers up to my neck. You'll never get out of your head. You'll be stuck here with me to tell you you're not good enough. For me to tell you that every social interaction you're doing is wrong. The warmth doesn't reach me. My head is in a frenzy. I roll over again, my eyes now fixed on the clock. Quit. What if I fail? What do I wear? What do I do? Did I study enough? Is he coming? I press my hands against my ears and push. I close my eyes, and release the air from my lungs. You think this will go away? You think that you can block your thoughts out this way? It's not enough. I roll over so my face is in the pillow. I can't do it. I can't do it. Then die. It's screaming in my head. It's like a broken record. Why can't they go away? My head hacked off. My wrists covered in blood. I have to live. I'm not depressed I just can't stop thinking that everything I do is wrong. Everything I am is wrong. And I will never get better. And I can't get better. I will never get better. I'm a waste of space. Why can't the thoughts just go away? It's been growing all week in my brain like a tumor. It matures like wine, growing more and more paralyzing each time. The more I try not to think about it or even if I do spend the time thinking about it, it won't matter. It will come back. And then I'll be alone with my head again. It would be so much easier to die.

BEEP BEEP BEEP

My alarm is going off again.

I have to do this. 

I have to get up.

I force the blanket off of me and force myself to stand up. I'm gazing blankly at the blankets as I pull them up on my bed. Now that you've decided to live you have to see everyone that fills you will horror. Congrats. You'll bump into him today. He's in a wheelchair. He'll be hard to miss. What a shame you're alive. The thoughts are running wild in my head, but at least my body is working. I know my schedule in the morning by heart so my parents won't think anything is wrong. I'm sure they'd think I was stupid if they knew. I bet they'd say I'm being weak, and sensitive. And I should get over it. You should be able to get over it, I bitterly think to myself. You are weak. And the picture of me thrusting a knife deep deep deep inside my neck pastes itself to the forefront of my mind.

My parents don't understand that I can't. I can't get over it, the racing thoughts aren't something I know how to control--and I can't get help through therapy because we can't afford it and my dad will shove me into a mental asylum if I ask for help and then I'll actually go crazy. Until then or I attempt suicide nothing will change. I'm crawling in my own skin. A prison. And I have to live because it'll hurt everyone else too much to lose me—

I press the top of the alarm clock so that the sounds turn off. I forgot to do that when I got up. Then why am I alive? What's God's big plan for me today? I turn towards my dresser. What do I wear? What can I wear? What will look good? How can I help myself calm down? They'll all stare at me, so why not have fun. Maybe looking good will make me feel better. You're lying to yourself, I breathe down my neck.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath and open the top drawer. I pull out a black shirt. I close the drawer. I pull open the bottom one and riffle through for my skinny jeans. I find them in the back, deep blue with white tears. Then I walk into the bathroom still fighting my plain. In the second drawer down I keep my assortment of beauty products.

Do I look okay? From the outside do I look like I want to die? Like I should die? Like I want to die. Do my eyes make me look the way I feel. Like an ostrich on parade. Am I okay? What if he sees me and wants me back? And the thought makes me stop breathing entirely. I won't keep keep thinking that. I don't have time for this. I need to keep getting ready. I need to make it through the day.

I pump primer onto my face, and feel as the tension in my pores increases, leaving my skin feeling tightened. I'm alone. I lather on my foundation, still in my summer shade. I powder my face, I brush out my long blonde hair, and then part my hair in the middle. I look over at the counter top. I look pretty. I just got new hair clips, but I don't want to wear them. What if someone makes a comment. What if someone says something. Not today. Please not today.

I shrug off my silky pajamas and press into my undergarments. Then I pull out my lotion that smells like honey dew, pulling out my matching perfume with it. Putting them both on I finally pull on the rest of my clothes. The smell is making me happy again. Making me feel more grounded.

My lungs keep forgetting to breath. I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm fine. I remind myself. I can feel myself laugh. You can lie to everyone else, but not to yourself. My legs are shaking. It'll be okay. I look up at the ceiling. They can't see this, I'll be okay. I have to be okay. It's not worth dying.

I open the door and walk down the stairs. I can see my dad sitting at the countertop with a coffee in hand.
"Morning pumpkin," he smiles at me.

"Morning daddy, I have to go pretty quick this morning so I can't eat with you now. But I will this weekend," I walk over and give him a hug.

"At least let me pray for your day," I can feel his warmth around me. It makes me want to cry.

"Sure," I say, feeling the adrenaline pumping through me. Standing still always makes this worse. I know how I'm about to feel. Hopeless.

"Dear Lord, please help my babygirl do great today. It's a big day and there's a lot going on, so just keep her close to you today. Amen." I can feel a peace wash over me like a spring shower.

But the anxiety is still there. It's always still there. Fighting me for control. But I have to press on. God wouldn't let me struggle through this for no reason. Theres a passage of scripture where Paul talks about having a thorn in his side. He begs the lord to take it away three times and the lord's response is, "my grace is sufficient for you. For my strength is made perfect through your weakness."

I wonder if this is how it felt to have a disease or disability in Bible times. I can even relate, maybe God is punishing me for something that I did. And the worst part is that during Bible times, the Pharisees accepted that as the only answer. Because if the Lord doesn't heal it, then the sinner must be the one that's in the wrong. So in the end the person who is suffering never gets heard, never gets help, and dies of something that could easily be prevented. But they were all too prideful to let go of their perspective and help. Everyone but Jesus.

And at the end of the day, even if everyone else tells me that my anxiety is a sin, I know where god and I stand. I am not sinning. I have a neurological disorder. And God, the one that let me have this disorder, will use it for HIS glory. It's not a curse. It's a gift. And now, standing at the front door to my house, stepping into the cold air, I bless the Lord for letting my dad remind me of this. I'm gifted with too many feelings in a very delicate body. I prayed for god's heart to love people... maybe he's letting me feel their perspectives. Feel their pain. Help someone see that the road doesn't end here. It doesn't always get worse. I just have to remember to come to God first.