Reality

The truth in summaries.

(A/N. I cover multiple things in this one. I will be making edits and additions over time and if you have any suggestions you can kik me @kate531)

I am suicidal.

But I am not an angel wanting to go home. I am not someone desperate to be free of the confines of this earth to find a pleasure in heaven.

I am someone who is so lost that I simply lost my will. I am someone so miserable I'd rather die than live another day. I am not looking for pleasure in the afterlife, I am looking for a sweet release from this hell that I live. Do not challenge me. Do not challenge me when I trust you enough to tell you. Do not tell me I won't actually do it. Do not tell me I don't have the balls. I have tried. I have a number of attempts and a number of plans do not test me. Do not call me weak. For in many cases, I am stronger than most.

I am anorexic.

But it is not beautiful. I do not look like I am a model.

Do not tell me what I am doing is good for me. Do not tell me I need to do it more if I want to be successful in that sick industry. Do not tell me I need to eat a burger. Do not tell me I am gross. My hair is falling out. My nails look like they're rotting. I hardly ever defecate it's nearly a foreign concept to me now.

I am bulimic.

I am not physically ill. I am unhappy with my body. But I didn't have the will to diet I didn't have the will to not eat that extra snack. I am guilty. I feel guilty.

I feel guilty of having no self control. I feel the need to punish myself by sticking things down my throat until those extra few calories are finally gone. It didn't work this time what do I do what do I do I don't eat. I don't eat and when I do I try again.

I self-harm.

But do not kiss my scars and tell me they're beautiful. Do not call them something so simple so minor as cat scratches. Do not tell me that my blade is my brush and my wrist is my canvas. What I do to my body is not art to be admired.

They are my battle wounds. They tell a story, but it is not pretty. It is not something to be seen as beauty. It is not something that should be replicated in hopes of achieving this... It is something I have done to myself because I couldn't find a way to cope with the emotional torment I have suffered. It is something I have done because I feel like I deserve it. It is something I have done because I feel like I'm a piece of shit and that I need to abuse myself to be at peace. Do not tell me what I am doing is beautiful and do not tell me what I am doing is art!

I am anxious.

I am not someone who simply can't handle the stresses of life. I am not someone who uses this sickness as an excuse. I am not someone dealing with everyday stress and I am most certainly not just exaggerating.

I am someone who deals with an immense amount of stress and fear at times where most people wouldn't. I am someone who has to deal with nearly passing out when told to speak to someone new. Do not tell me I just need to calm down do not tell me it's not that big of a deal to me it is. To me it's the world. To me it will tear me apart if it isn't done if it isn't a certain way if something could go wrong what if something goes wrong.

I have PTSD.

I am not someone who simply can't cope with my past. I do not have something that should be taken lightly. I should not be passed off as weak and full of attention seeking self pity.

I am stressed. I have night terrors. I have flashbacks. I have triggers. At the sound of a gunshot I panic and I wail. I have flashbacks of the battle I have pain invading my healed wounds. The moment someone raises a hand near me I flinch in panic. I say "Leave me alone!" as their confusion starts to ensue. I cry as I remember and I ask myself why. I don't deserve this. I am haunted by a past that is determined to overcome my present. My future. I fight it. But do not assume that it's easy. Next time you're lighting fireworks, I want you to think of me and the booming noise invading my solace. My peace.

I am depressed.

I am not self-pitying. I do not say "woe is me". I do not tell you my stories to gain your pity. I am not faking sick because I'm simply too lazy to be in school. I am not spending most of my time alone and relaxing because I'm not motivated enough to do anything.

I am someone with desires. I have dreams. I have aspirations. I have no motivation to do anything to acquire any of it. But yes I do. I want it so desperately I so desperately want to be happy but no matter how hard I try I just can't seem to do it, it is a mental weight. It is a mental weight that is dragging me down. I have to struggle and pull and drag it to simply move to feed myself. I've lost weight. I didn't mean to it's just gotten to the point where I can't do it. I've gained weight. I can't help it I get depressed and I cope and I eat and it's how I deal. I can't sleep. I can't sleep but I lay awake in bed at night and during the day because I can't seem to find the drive to shower to eat to function to do anything that I once enjoyed and now..I feel stuck. This is not a phase. I will not get over this. This was not caused by some sad event in my life. I did not choose this I did not choose to be depressed. Rainbows and sunshine and pretty things will not cure this. No amount of vitamin D or you telling me I just need to get out more will help me out of this rut. It is an imbalance in my brain that I do not control that I cannot help.

I have OCD.

I'm not just a clean freak. I'm not just an extremely organized person.

I wake up I turn the light on and off and on and off and on and off exactly that many times because something could go wrong. I leave the house I lock the door I try to open it I unlock the door I re lock the door I try to open it I unlock the door I re lock the door I try to open it someone could get in. I start the car I turn it off I start the car I turn it off I start the car I turn it off I start the car what if I break down. I say goodnight to my wife I kiss her twice on her left cheek thrice on the right I hug her for five seconds flat no longer no shorter it's all for her safety. This is my OCD. OCD is not obsessive cleaning disorder it is not organized and cleanly disorder it is obsessive compulsive disorder and I am obsessively compulsive.