18 Years of Depression

In and Out

...

breathe in, breathe out.

breathe in, breathe out.

in...out...

I open my eyes and look around my small closet and they adjust themselves to the dark, and dim lighting, wiping my eyes and continuing to breathe I slowly lift my head from the fetal position I had been rocking bath and forth in. slowly my breathing began to slow down and return to normal as my panic attack subdues. they have started to become much more common in this past year, as I went from not remembering the last time I cried to doing the very act almost every 24 hours within the darkness and comfort of my closet, away from any prying eyes or ears who might find out. today had been a long time coming, my exam marks had come in and while they were good in the eyes of most, in the penetrating eyes of my parents they were still disgraceful, I had listened to my father tell me how much of a disappointment I am the whole way home as I blinked back the tears, while putting my headphones on... I listened to anything. The sound of my father's harsh words was too loud and repetitive in my head to focus on a  song. When I got home, after a minute of silence and peace my mother called, demanding my results, as I went through the same trauma, and endured it again when she got home from work, blaming me for not working hard enough, and telling me what a disappointment, and waste I really was. Little did she know that as I sit here on the carpeted floor of my closet, I already know, and I had nine fresh lines of red bumps on my thigh to prove it. One for mother, and father, one for each subject I had 'failed' and one for being a failure, yet again. I pick myself up with my ragged breath and shaking knees, as I walk into my bathroom and sit in front of the mirror. I stare at my reflection, dishevelled and limp long brown hair, pale tan skin, and dull brown eyes. I would look like a corpse if it weren't for the redness on my nose and the dried tears on my cheeks. I turn on the tap and splash cold water over my face, the cool water burns as it touches my eyelids, giving them a sort of relief because they had been so deprived of moisture. this has become a ritual, something a do religiously after every panic attack without fail. After washing my face, I look at myself in the mirror, give myself a slight smile, before quickly returning to my natural expression, as the smile seems too foreign on my lips and I walk out of the door, as if nothing had happened, and just like that, no one notices that my eyes had been dried of tears only a few moments earlier, no one notices that my nose had been red from running, and no one notices that I am not fine... at all.