A Constellation of Thoughts

The Worst of All

You make my head spin at night and you've made me rip out my hair. You make me feel claustrophobic- and angry. 

When you approach me I know that later on in the day I will feel like I want to crawl under a rug and just make everything stop. 

Not in a "I want to die" stop. 

The kind of stop where I sit in a room and just concentrate and have my mind be quiet because not once has that happened. 

"that's just a phase, everyone goes through it.",

I am not a phase- I sit and ponder of ways to get rid of you because you won't leave yourself but I will always feel malaise- and depressed over the same things but only in that order because if not I will cry and sit and constantly pinch myself to remind me that it will go away. 

I will cry and get shaky, and probably cry again. 

I get so angry at you- it's like you're swallowing my entire being because everyone is so close to me, and I get angry at them because they won't be quiet and it makes me want to dig at my skin. 

You make me want to sit in my room and leave everyone be because "what if I do something annoying" and when I do- I just admit to it and play it off as if it were nothing and laugh along because what's the point in trying to stop it as if it could get worse?

The only part of me that I can control is my breathing, and the shaking of my leg. Yet nothing more because my heart is racing and my voice is cracking.

I sit and rip my hair out to the point of having a headache but Ibuprofen won't take it away. I sit alone and when someone opens the door I jump. 

Anxiety, 

you aren't my worst fears, you're the worst of all.

You make me rip chunks of hair, and leave claw marks on my skin, you make me wonder who's looking at me and why. 

I doubt myself and think too much- about things I should be doing but aren't. That's my fault because I sit around people who scratch their fingernails on the chalkboard of decency. They make me want to crawl out of my skin and hide in the corner of the school, because by now I know the places to hide where they won't ask why I look so upset.

My anxiety is best friends with my depression, and they both glue me to my bed and I lay planted down. Nothing seems to cure it because my anxiety is not being scared, it's worse. It is the beautiful sunset that I watch with my significant other, and the only thing onIy can think about is the fact that it is inevitable that the sunset won't always be beautiful and that it will one day give out. 

That 18% of this population deals with the same things as I, but I feel like I have bigger demons to fight because they may have the same mental illness, but not for the same reasoning. 

My anxiety makes my skin scream. It puts salt in my wounds, and takes it to it's own advantage. It gives me the salt instead of putting it on the highest shelf. Everytime I put the salt in my wounds it feels as if the crippling depression hurts less. 

My wrists bleed flowers but only the ones that will be set out at my funeral. I arrange them in lines, as if they were wrapped as a gift, and I decide to cut the bow. 

The bow is the metaphorical roots- the roots that leave me planted day after day in the place I call home.