Dreaming Is for the Free

One

The moment everything fell apart, I realized life doesn't teach gently—it teaches by impact.

Sometimes the world presses in so tightly I can't tell where I end and it begins. I sink without knowing how to save myself, counting seconds as the air runs out, waiting for the dark to finish the job.

Other times, life feels effortless. I float. The sky is open, the people I love are okay, and for once, nothing is pulling me under. In those moments, happiness comes easily.

I never know which version I'll wake up to.

I've been trying to figure out how to deal with it all without combusting. I fail most of the time because I care too much. I worry too much. I wish I were one of those people who didn't hold their mind hostage after every difficult situation, but I can't seem to let things go. I'm stuck trying to accept the fact that I'm not the person I want to be. I don't think I ever have been. I'm my own worst enemy. I know that much. What I don't know—what I should know by now—is how to deal with it.

It's been eighteen years, and I still don't know how to control my intrusive thoughts. I wake up stressed, go to sleep stressed, even watch TV stressed. It never ends. The days keep rolling forward, and all I can do is cope, no matter how exhausting it becomes.

But I do have help.
My longest friend—Prozac.

I don't know where I'd be without her.

After being diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder when I was four years old, I've continuously had some struggles. I wasn't put on medication until I was eight, and that was after I had a bit of a meltdown. It's an infamous moment that I would like to forget about, but I'm glad it happened. It forced Angel, my biological mother, to finally listen to Grandma and the doctors. She would constantly argue with anyone who had anything to say about my diagnosis.

"The doctors made a mistake."

"She'll grow out of it."

"She's too young to have anxiety."

I remember every statement Angel made when she found out that her strange daughter worries herself sick. After my incident, she had no choice.

Prozac has been by my side ever since. My longest friend. I haven't gone one day without "her".

Speaking of which, it's time.

I close my journal and place it on my night stand along with my sparkly, silver pen. I write every morning because it helps me center my thoughts. There's a lot less I have to overthink about if I write some of those thoughts down.

I hop out of bed and slide my feet into my cream colored slippers. The fur tickles my toes as I tread slowly into the hallway, hoping Grandma hasn't occupied the bathroom yet.

I've been living with her since I was 11. That's when she got custody of me so now it's just Grandma and I. Angel wasn't fit to be a parent, and still isn't. She's interested in other things.

My grandmother, on the other hand, saved my life. She took me in and gave me everything I needed. I don't think I'd be alive if it wasn't for her. The only downside is that she takes too long in the bathroom. There's only one in this three bedroom house, and I think she forgets that sometimes.

I hear water coming from the sink so I decide to wait instead of going back into my room. Hopefully she's finishing up and will be right out.

I start to stare at the brown walls, which look like some kind of fake wood. I've always found this texture to be strange on the walls. Yet everyday, I find myself fixated on it whenever I walk through this hallway. I picture Angel running through here when she was younger, getting in trouble while Uncle Theo chases her. Grandma yelling from in the kitchen as she cooks a big Sunday dinner for the family. It makes me happy and sad. Happy because I know that this house holds so many memories. Sad because I never had a childhood like that. Sad because I don't have a healthy relationship with Angel.