Everyone thinks it's because of the medication. In a way, that's the truth.
Waking up every morning to dry blood stains all over my sheets, the razor I used the night before refusing to correlate.
Every day in Chicago being an average one meant the creative art of name calling, mentally beating myself a few inches closer to death, a continuous stream of tears falling down my face forming a river. My eyes refusing to obey the command to hold them in, leaving me with only my thoughts to destroy me further.
Mother used to always say
"People will talk about you when they enjoy you and the life you lead. Let them, it just means you affected their life, don't let them affect yours". Ever since the chemo had failed yet another victim, the self- blame, self-hate, self-harm and self-esteem only worsened to a point where I was unable to look at myself in the mirror hating the monster everyone knew as London.
People found it entertaining as the chemotherapy slowly rejected her hair, pushing it up and out of her already bare skull. Words hurt; I don't care if they roll off their tongues in a bemused voice. It fucking hurts. Mentally I'm non- existent and yet its my pure existence knowing that is simply well terrifying.
You don't see it, you don't see the tears rolling down my face as I slice up my arm like wood in a sawmill, I saw into my arm begging the blade to go deeper and yet stop. Or perhaps more like a violinist, using the razor I call mine to form the perfectly spaced strings in my arm. Nor do you hear me scream into my pillow as the pain finally embraces me in its sharp arms being the only friend I have and yet my worst enemy.
I am London, this is who I am, and this is my story.
YOU ARE READING
Heartbeats
RomanceHeartbeats, they don't necessarily stop but they will slow down. A dangerous boy saving a broken girl but what if not is all as it seems... what if its a dangerous girl saving a broken boy. When the anxiety creeps in and there connection grows. Will...
