sleepyhollow
Shall I linger a little longer?
- Nov 19, 2023
- 14
*if you are reading this, hello. I categorized this under 'story' because it seemed more fitting (but I can understand if you think it should be venting). It's not angry, or passionate. I just wanted to know if anyone felt the same, or similar. It's okay if you don't want to read it, though. Whoever you are, I hope you are doing okay, though I suppose that might be unlikely; I wish the best for you 
.
When I stand infront of the mirror, I have such a hard time looking at myself. I hate my reflection. It's not that I'm hideous. My skin looks better than ever, due to my consistent use of certain skin products. I've lost a little weight recently. Not intentionally. I haven't been eating as well. Even when I am hungry, I have no appetite. Food tastes like...chalk. I don't really enjoy eating anymore, i suppose. It feels more like something I just have to do in order to survive. Plus, there are so many other things I could be, should be doing with my time. Usually, I don't actually do them, though. It's too exhausting. I can barely get out of bed in the mornings. I spend most of the nights staring at the shapes in the plaster ceiling, crying, tossing and turning, and, when I can't take it anymore, I go upstairs and grab... I always put it back before morning comes. And I guess I must always wear long sleeves now. I shouldn't do it on my thighs. I can wear a rash guard when I go swimming (to cover my arms), but if I amass an inordinate number of marks on my thighs, it would be over. I don't know how I could cover my legs very well without looking odd and suspicious while swimming. And I can't always avoid swimming.
When I look in the mirror, my eyes...my eyes look dead. How does no one else see it? The dull gray of despair, just meaningless and awful. I'm afraid to make eye contact with people. Yet, sometimes I stare people straight in the eyes, daring them to wonder, to notice. What if they get suspicious? I don't know if they would. My disguise is too well-done, maybe. I wear a lot of pastels. I don't dress like the emo/goth people or whatever they might be called. No, I wear soft and baggy, sweet and cute clothing. Denim overalls, an innocent face framed by long hair. Shimmering pearl jewlery and bright colorblock sneakers. Most people don't know me, but I think they know of me. It would shock if they actually knew me. I don't talk much. I've always been quiet. I have one friend, though. Even my best and only friend is surprised by the things I say, sometimes. I am a perpetrator of dark humor, and I don't always hide it. I should. So no one ever, ever finds out.
There is a saying: "Don't judge a book by its cover." It means that you shouldn't assume that someone is horrible just because they appear horrible. Can it not go the other way? Don't assume that someone is plesant just because they appear pleasant. Don't assume someone is happy just because they appear happy. Why can't they see it and just help me? But, in truth, I don't want them to know. It's my fault for hiding it so well, anyways. If I told them, would they even believe me? Would I have to roll up my sleeves to convince them? Would they scream, cry, gnash their teeth? Would they ask me if I want to die, too? Would they send me to an insane asylum? I'm numb, but a slash of fear strikes me at the thought. Do they really want to help me? Or, do they want to fix me, force me to conform, to normalize, to be more acceptable to the "others"? It seems like too much of a hastle, so I stay quiet. It makes me a little sad that they won't know until it's too late.
In speaking with me, many people have said something to the effect of, "I can't imagine you getting angry ever," or, "you seem like such a calm soul," or even, "I don't think you have ever been truly angry in your entire life." I used to find that mildly offensive, since I perceived it as them placing limits on the range of my emotions, and, therefore, reducing me to less than human. I guess you could say I'm a control freak. Everything must be perfect: my image, my work, the steps I take, down, down, down...
Have I always been like this? Maybe, at one point, I tried to hide my emotions, and now I can't show them at all. Or, maybe, I simply cannot feel the way others do. Is that why those marks appear on my arms? They come by means of that which is sharp, a reminder of life, of pain, of realness. But, sometimes, I do feel a lot. I feel so much, all in one moment, that it knocks the breath out of me, and I heave in gasps of air. I need my sharp little friend then, too. I wash him well, and then I wash my marks. It's 5 in the morning, and I haven't gotten a wink of sleep. I don't feel well, not at all.
Actually, I have gotten "help" before. They called it "behavioral therapy." To help my OCD, my slowness in getting ready for the day, my inconveniencing others by making them late. He asked me to rate things on a scale from 0 to 10, with 10 being severely awful. "Prolonged periods of depressive episodes." I said, "3." I lied. I won't let them know, never, never, never. "Suicidal thoughts, tendencies, or behaviors" "1," I replied. Liar, liar, liar, liar, liar, liar... Not one of my ratings exceeded 4. I tried to believe the words that spewed from my mouth, I really did. I failed. I am a failure. Why can't I do anything right-"No one is perfect, not even you, and that it OK!" My therapist comments on my surface issues. I feed them to him begrudgingly, connivingly, always coming up with new ones to share, ever so carefully. I don't want to do this anymore, never wanted to do it in the first place, but it makes my family feel better, so I continue. When I finally broke down and begged to stop having therapy sessions, my mother said, "I've seen changes in you for the better, and I think we should keep having them for a little while longer." I grit out a smile, fake, fake, fake, and nod my head. "I'm glad I've learned to pretend more effectively so that your comfort and peace of mind can be preserved." Venomous words, ready to be deployed, but I never let them leave my mouth. They will never know, not until it's too late...
And then I sneak the knife down to my room again. I feel a little less lonely, afraid, hopeless when I have it, use it, and the marks multiply...
.When I stand infront of the mirror, I have such a hard time looking at myself. I hate my reflection. It's not that I'm hideous. My skin looks better than ever, due to my consistent use of certain skin products. I've lost a little weight recently. Not intentionally. I haven't been eating as well. Even when I am hungry, I have no appetite. Food tastes like...chalk. I don't really enjoy eating anymore, i suppose. It feels more like something I just have to do in order to survive. Plus, there are so many other things I could be, should be doing with my time. Usually, I don't actually do them, though. It's too exhausting. I can barely get out of bed in the mornings. I spend most of the nights staring at the shapes in the plaster ceiling, crying, tossing and turning, and, when I can't take it anymore, I go upstairs and grab... I always put it back before morning comes. And I guess I must always wear long sleeves now. I shouldn't do it on my thighs. I can wear a rash guard when I go swimming (to cover my arms), but if I amass an inordinate number of marks on my thighs, it would be over. I don't know how I could cover my legs very well without looking odd and suspicious while swimming. And I can't always avoid swimming.
When I look in the mirror, my eyes...my eyes look dead. How does no one else see it? The dull gray of despair, just meaningless and awful. I'm afraid to make eye contact with people. Yet, sometimes I stare people straight in the eyes, daring them to wonder, to notice. What if they get suspicious? I don't know if they would. My disguise is too well-done, maybe. I wear a lot of pastels. I don't dress like the emo/goth people or whatever they might be called. No, I wear soft and baggy, sweet and cute clothing. Denim overalls, an innocent face framed by long hair. Shimmering pearl jewlery and bright colorblock sneakers. Most people don't know me, but I think they know of me. It would shock if they actually knew me. I don't talk much. I've always been quiet. I have one friend, though. Even my best and only friend is surprised by the things I say, sometimes. I am a perpetrator of dark humor, and I don't always hide it. I should. So no one ever, ever finds out.
There is a saying: "Don't judge a book by its cover." It means that you shouldn't assume that someone is horrible just because they appear horrible. Can it not go the other way? Don't assume that someone is plesant just because they appear pleasant. Don't assume someone is happy just because they appear happy. Why can't they see it and just help me? But, in truth, I don't want them to know. It's my fault for hiding it so well, anyways. If I told them, would they even believe me? Would I have to roll up my sleeves to convince them? Would they scream, cry, gnash their teeth? Would they ask me if I want to die, too? Would they send me to an insane asylum? I'm numb, but a slash of fear strikes me at the thought. Do they really want to help me? Or, do they want to fix me, force me to conform, to normalize, to be more acceptable to the "others"? It seems like too much of a hastle, so I stay quiet. It makes me a little sad that they won't know until it's too late.
In speaking with me, many people have said something to the effect of, "I can't imagine you getting angry ever," or, "you seem like such a calm soul," or even, "I don't think you have ever been truly angry in your entire life." I used to find that mildly offensive, since I perceived it as them placing limits on the range of my emotions, and, therefore, reducing me to less than human. I guess you could say I'm a control freak. Everything must be perfect: my image, my work, the steps I take, down, down, down...
Have I always been like this? Maybe, at one point, I tried to hide my emotions, and now I can't show them at all. Or, maybe, I simply cannot feel the way others do. Is that why those marks appear on my arms? They come by means of that which is sharp, a reminder of life, of pain, of realness. But, sometimes, I do feel a lot. I feel so much, all in one moment, that it knocks the breath out of me, and I heave in gasps of air. I need my sharp little friend then, too. I wash him well, and then I wash my marks. It's 5 in the morning, and I haven't gotten a wink of sleep. I don't feel well, not at all.
Actually, I have gotten "help" before. They called it "behavioral therapy." To help my OCD, my slowness in getting ready for the day, my inconveniencing others by making them late. He asked me to rate things on a scale from 0 to 10, with 10 being severely awful. "Prolonged periods of depressive episodes." I said, "3." I lied. I won't let them know, never, never, never. "Suicidal thoughts, tendencies, or behaviors" "1," I replied. Liar, liar, liar, liar, liar, liar... Not one of my ratings exceeded 4. I tried to believe the words that spewed from my mouth, I really did. I failed. I am a failure. Why can't I do anything right-"No one is perfect, not even you, and that it OK!" My therapist comments on my surface issues. I feed them to him begrudgingly, connivingly, always coming up with new ones to share, ever so carefully. I don't want to do this anymore, never wanted to do it in the first place, but it makes my family feel better, so I continue. When I finally broke down and begged to stop having therapy sessions, my mother said, "I've seen changes in you for the better, and I think we should keep having them for a little while longer." I grit out a smile, fake, fake, fake, and nod my head. "I'm glad I've learned to pretend more effectively so that your comfort and peace of mind can be preserved." Venomous words, ready to be deployed, but I never let them leave my mouth. They will never know, not until it's too late...
And then I sneak the knife down to my room again. I feel a little less lonely, afraid, hopeless when I have it, use it, and the marks multiply...
