Who?

This is the story of my battle with depression. This is the account of my life before I overcame chronic anxiety and constant dejection.

 

Have you ever thought about the phrase "silent scream"? What does that mean to you? Personally, what has your silent scream been? Is it...

Tears decorating your pillow in a mosaic of stains?

Red lacerations on your wrists, thighs, or anywhere else?

The holes in the wall you've created?

The meals you've been skipping?

The burn marks on your skin?

The bruises from hitting yourself?

 

What is or has been your silent scream? Answer that question before reading ahead.

 

I know someone. Someone who had heaven to hold. Someone who shared bliss with those around her. Someone close to me. Someone I am very familiar with. Someone whose smile was contagious. Someone whose laugh was infectious. Someone whose positivity was almost tangible. Her outlook was through the lens of happiness and joy. Her touch was warm. Soft. Her voice was musical. Her mouth was always lifted up in a natural smile. Her innate expression was one of invitation. Ease. Comfortable to approach. Nonjudgmental. Hugs. Open. Raw. Real. Authentic. Someone who snatched depression by the throat and slammed him to the floor, demanding superiority. Someone who would look death himself in the face and just grin. Someone whose eyes could pierce through the wall you'd built around yourself. Someone whose look would slice like a knife through the layers of masks you'd put up. Someone who was impossible to lie to because she knew when you weren't okay. Someone who stood up for others at any cost. Someone who was selfless. Someone who would not think twice before jumping between you and a bullet.

I know someone else. Someone who carries hell in her head. Someone who has her personal demon sleeping comfortably inside her mind with the stems of her consciousness locked in chains. Someone who gets angry when people as if she was okay. Someone who would snap if someone asked her what that weeping sound in her room was the night before. Someone close to me. Someone I am very familiar with. Someone whose smile now drops as soon as eyes are turned away. Someone whose laugh is empty and hollow. Someone whose positivity turned nonexistent. Her outlook is now that of ice. Her touch eventually became cold. Hard. Her voice falls vacant. Her mouth is always closed and pressed. No smile. Simply neutral. Her natural expression is one of nothingness unless she finds herself around other people. In that case, you would not know the difference between her and the woman in the previous paragraph. Now, she is someone you might think twice about approaching. Closed off. Masked. Someone who is complacent with being in a constant state of numbness. Someone whose eyes you would not be able to decipher. Someone whose wall you could not climb over. Someone whose mask you would not be able to see through. Someone who would lie to you and tell you she's okay. Someone who no longer cares about how others feel about her. Someone who wants to be alone despite the feelings of her family and loved ones. Someone who no longer thinks of everyone else first. Someone who would still take the bullet, but this time, not for you. But rather to end herself.

Can you guess? Can you read between the lines. How well do your comprehensive and problem-solving skills work? Can you see it? Look harder. Listen closer. Think deeper. Reach further. There is not enough time allotted for all of the intimate details I have refrained from telling you. There will never be an adequate amount of anything to prepare you for the test. The test we all have to take. The test with only one question we must all ask ourselves: Who?

Who is this person I have become?

She is a stranger yet stares me in the mirror every day. She is foreign yet so in tune with me that she feels natural. Tell me this demon I have become. Tell me, why? Explain to me the ice I feel freezing my once warm heart. I used to burn with passion. Blaze with hope and life. Now all I can do is stare at the walls wondering. Rocking back and forth. Mumbling useless nothings to myself. Jitter with anxiousness.

Sometimes I feel like I am suffocating. A wet rag labeled protection has been clamped over my mouth by anonymous people in dark hoods that say, "This is for your own good," depriving me of sweet, sweet oxygen. I drown in my own tears, limp and compliant. My heart pounds madly in my chest. It slams audibly against my ribs. My palms start to sweat. My fingers start to tingle until they tremble like a frail leaf in the wind.

And it leaves as quickly as it came. My fingers still. My heart slows. My palms dry. I can almost physically feel my once bright eyes glass over with nothingness. And nothing else happens. I sit. I sit completely still for as long as I can.

Her eyes a dry desert, thirsty and barren.

Vacant and hollow.

This poem is about: 
Me

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