i breathe. i break.

I feel like I am coming apart at the seams. Like a dead girl living in hell. My brain is screaming with a million different voices, all fighting for dominion of my life.

My mind, my thoughts, are land mines threatening to explode, raining down death and destruction at the tiniest of movements.

I just want the debilitating fear, the agonizing hopelessness to stop.

I crave stillness. Peace.

I want to take a flame thrower to the thoughts filtering through my mind, burn it to the ground.

Dig the tangled ruin from beneath my skin and fling it away.

Rip the skin open and spill the pain on the ground, watching as it commingles with my blood and drips apart onto the cold and broken ground.

A living dead girl playing in the ash. Breathing in the smoke, grinning in the ruin.

Relishing the stillness.

I crave this constant drum of thoughts to die, to pause, to stop and never continue.

I am desperate for this awful pain to cease in its persistent attack.

There is an itch beneath my skin, a burning, screaming ache.

An ache that screams in benediction that I must ignore, with every once of my being. I must find the stubborn will to resist the charmed allure of this undeniable gorgeous ache.

***

I sometimes wish that my brain worked differently. That I wasn’t afflicted with Generalized Anxiety Disorder.
 
It makes me feel.
 
Too much. Of everything bad. 
 
I feel like a freak pretending to be normal. With a mask built of stone that can never be shattered, hiding all of my jagged pieces. 
 
I confuse the ‘normal’ people around me, as I ramble with words streaming from my mouth in a cacophony of sound that isn’t easily identified with normality, with saneness. I know, I understand that I am suffocating in irrationality. That the fear that consumes me, rips the breath from my lungs, isn’t real in the sense that it can be gripped, touched, recognized as sane fear. 
 
It’s insane, crazy.
 
I so desperately wish to the deepest part of my soul that I could ignore the thoughts filtering through my brain. That I could see, hear, joke about things like a ‘normal’ person. That I could loosen the grip of carefully disguised insanity for even just a moment. 
 
But I cant. 
 
I breathe. I break. 
 
I am consumed with irrationality, while being a horribly rational person. 
 
It’s a sick twist of fate to be sick but not sick enough, but not normal enough. 
 
Always teetering on the edge. 
 
Watching the world around me and not able to fit into the mold of either group of individuals. 
 
For ‘normal’ people it’s a joke, a thing to mock, or a thing to pity.
 
I neither wish to be a joke or make my illness and the side effects of it a joke, nor do I wish to be pitied in any way shape or form.

 

It’s not a joke, it’s not funny, it isn’t me being pathetic. It’s highly real in the sense that it consumes me and controls me. A living, breathing entity inside of my brain.

I contain it, with an iron fist. I control and keep my mask sealed tightly to my face, covering up all of the cracks and the crazy.

I hold tight to my crazy.

Keeping it reined in, in silence or in chatter, desperate to contain every last bit of shrapnel zinging through my thoughts.

The insanity that lives inside my head staggers me.

Paralyzes me.

I desperately seek silence.

Quiet.

Peace.

I breathe. I break.

 

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