The Forgotten One

2

"She wasn't sad anymore,
she was numb,
and numb, she knew
was somehow worse."
- Harper Lee

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Hi, this is the edited version of chapter 2. Not much has changed, aside from making things sound better/ adding necessary info. I'm sorry it's taken so long- school has been destroying me. But, I hope you enjoy!

- J xx

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I hate when people attribute a feeling to a mental illness.

They'll say their sadness over an argument is depression. Their nerves before an exam is anxiety. Their fondness of straight lines is OCD.

When, in reality, they'd wish they could be anyone else if they were actually struggling.

People who have will know that feeling. The inexplicably strong need to be someone else- be in a different body, a different head. Escape yourself, and your mind that isn't fulfilling its job of protecting you.

Those who haven't won't. They'll never crave running away, but knowing deep down that it'll solve nothing. And it's so strong- the craving. It feels as though you need to inject it into your veins, over and over, until you can't anymore. Until you're a bruised shell of yourself, shaking in the aftermaths of withdrawal. And even then, you find a different part of your body- amongst the marred, needle-poked skin, and you inject it some more. Your veins are swollen, your body weak, but you still need more. Because you know the demons in your mind aren't something you can move away from. You know that, ultimately, you will never be free of them.

You can mask them, sure. You can cover them with whatever you want- false smiles, drugs, a busy social life. But they're still there. They'll always be there, for as long as you live.

Forever a part of you, and forever the cause of you.

I think I'll always remember the first time my mind betrayed me. I was nine, and had just started a new year at school. I'd never had a lot of friends; I suppose a product of always being nervous- cautious, even of others. But, I'd never been outwardly bullied, either. Maybe I was lonely at times, maybe even sad. But never a victim. Until I defended the boy everyone in my class was calling weird. I couldn't- and still can't- understand how anyone thought it was okay to make him feel that way. He was crying and I just couldn't bear to watch it, so I told them to stop. I started sitting with him at break time so he wasn't alone. And that was when the target arrived on my back.

I sometimes question whether, if I had known what it would lead to, I'd still have befriended him. I like to think I would. But I'm not so sure. Not sure if anyone has the capability to give kindness out so freely after dealing with life.

Anyway, all the girls kept running away whenever I'd try to sit with them, and the boys started coming up with a variety of nicknames to incorporate weird into my name. And I just couldn't take it. I'm aware it sounds trivial in the grand scheme of things, but if the mind is anything, it's illogical. So I started having a panic attack.

Well, at least that's what I know it as now. Back then, I genuinely thought I was dying. Which again, sounds dramatic, but no one had ever told me what they were. So when I couldn't breathe, and I couldn't speak, and I couldn't think, or move, or stop shaking, I thought I was dying. I distinctly remember tears streaming down my face, but possessing no ability to wipe them. Because my body was frozen- a common theme amongst my story, I realise.