Once my biggest problem in my life was my fear of going to the bathroom in the middle of the night.
Through the dark I would see figures who would scare me.
I would think that there were people under my floorboards with pins that would poke me if I stood in place for to long
When I got a little older I would have full mental breakdowns sobbing and hyperventilating at night,
when I would crawl into my mom's bed she asks "what's wrong baby? " I would tell her that I watched something I shouldn't have and I'm scared.
Now, I lay here fighting the urge to follow suit into the bad coping mechanisms that would soothe my turning stomach.
Nothing compares to the release and immediate guilt I feel when I push my nails into the skin on my legs.
The red lines they leave serve as proof of my mental state, like it's real.
My mental health has gone from a beautiful white rose to a flowerless stem waiting to bloom again.
