Dust

| 14 |

It's that odd time of day, too early to be morning, too late to be night, soft glowing grey light so faint it's trapped between the window and the curtains, and I'm wondering, do you know my name?

My eyes are watering and I have been clean for more than a week because I have a therapist appointment on Saturday morning so I can't have scratch marks on my forearms. It's gotten harder to fall asleep and the lonely light of my charging phone is the only way I know my eyes are still open. I'm not starting to crack, I've already broken in 846 pieces and I'm just trying to make sure nobody gets hurt on the shards. They're keeping everyone away but don't let them in to come save me either. So you see there is a lot going on right now and all I can think is of my adoration for Stella and how I miss her and the way she made me feel complete and have some company on my self-hatred. There are a million thoughts racing through my head and the most prominent one continues to be if you know my name.

I am typing hunched over a computer screen in a dark bedroom, such an uncomfortable position to be in but I can't move without writing it all down, the things I can't say to my mother or my therapist (what am I going to say to my therapist? If I stay quiet it's just a waste of money, if I lie and smile then why am I even there? Why was I stupid enough to tell them about a measly anxiety attack?). I self-sabotage at every turn, I undermine myself. I set goals, I have a plan, and then I completely doubt every stage and talk out of it.

I am with people on my day-to-day life and I laugh and tell jokes and then I get to bed at night and I try to think of the positive highlights of the day and there's nothing. I try to think of moments of happiness and I'm empty. And then I question if in those moments I was actually feeling some sort of joy or was I faking it? Unknowingly lying? Or perhaps I was just on auto-pilot, the smiles and laughter an echo of who I used to be, things that used to amuse me. Nothing amuses me anymore.

There is a cold white pain on my upper back and I feel the muscles underneath it strained but I had to write it down, my 3 am thoughts, the things I'll never say out loud but flood my head with self-doubt. Maybe I should go back to my happy place, but I don't remember where it was. All small tasks seem to big, stressful, draining. My fingertips are cold, the green veins in my hands and the muscles that connect to my fingers are protuberant. I really do miss it, a time where there were no worries. But tonight I find myself wondering if said time ever even existed or if it was just a figment of my imagination. Perhaps a spot I developed in the childish part of my brain, an oasis, a paradise, a heaven for the most broken of souls...