I'm Not Okay (I Promise) • Geetrick

2

---Patrick---

Drums. Voices. Bass. Guitar.

"I want to be the minority
I don't need your authority
Down with the moral majority
Cause I want to be the minority,"

His voice echoes through my head as I rush down the halls, not running, but I'm sure as hell not strolling. Each step feels so long like I can never walk or even run fast enough from my problems, from the heavy weight that always rests on my shoulders. Anxiety, doubt, depression, guilt, fear. I take a sharp left and find myself in the bathroom. Perfect.

As soon as I'm through the door, I pull off my fedora and continue my fast pace into a stall without a moment of hesitation. My trembling fingers shut the door, making sure it's locked and nobody can find me. Nobody could laugh at me for this... I know they would. I know they would just giggle away at my pathetic attempt to lose weight like I ever could lose weight. It's useless. There's no way I could. It's stupid but no matter what, I can't stop myself from trying. I lean over the toilet and before I can have second thoughts, I shove two fingers into my mouth and down my throat as far as they'll go. I'm surprised by my own determination but let it pass quickly as my stomach clenches and everything I ate the day before is forced out my mouth. Near nothing.

"Unsung, against the mold,
Without a doubt,
Singled out,
The only way I know,"

I flush my vomit down the toilet, shivering and wiping my stinging eyes of tears with my arms crossed and my knees weak. I stand for a moment, my back against the stall wall as I try to calm down and regain some strength. My mind is foggy, but it's slowly clearing up. My heart is pounding, but it's gradually slowing down. My knees are still weak, and my hands are clutching the toilet paper roll for something to hold on to, but I'm beginning to strengthen again, one step at a time. It happens every time, I lose my courage when I need it to most. The courage to get through the day without one trip to the bathroom, but I always seem to back down

I take a few deep breaths, feeling my lungs inflate and deflate inside my chest as I try to get rid of my anxiety even though it near never works. My anxiety is always there. Always. It's like a shadow, it always follows me around even if I don't want it to. I hate my shadows, I have a few of them, always pulling at the back of my mind and forcing me to relive what I don't want to relive, laughing as my eyes open wide in fear and I cry myself to sleep at the thought of what they bring me. They're less like shadows, though, and more like demons. I guess I have a lot of demons, then...

I let my hands finally release the toilet paper roll, still shaky but not as bad as they were when I first let everything come up. I don't open the stall door quite yet, though. Instead, I glance at my clothed arms. I don't know why I always do this to myself... I guess it's just a reminder. A constant reminder that my life won't get any better, that no matter how hard I try, my life will always be this hell that I'll never be able to escape because I keep reliving the same traumatizing moment over and over and over. And sometimes I just need a reminder because my mind gets carried away with unrealistic fantasies of being happy...

I clasp the edge of one of my sleeves softly, slowly pulling up the light gray clothing of my jacket and I can't help but feel a little sick as I look across all the scars. The most recent ones are deeper than my past ones, but some of the ones from a few years ago nearly sent me to the hospital.

The bullying is over for the most part. At school at least.

My mind brushes over that thought for only a split second before I move away from it and tug down my sleeves, trying to push that as far out of my mind as I can because I can't think about that now. I open the stall door and make my way to the faucet, washing my hands.