Internal Wars Rage on Quietly

The inside of a mental health battle.

Internal Wars Rage on Quietly

As I sit in this crammy, overly welcoming office, I notice the colors of the walls; happy colors—yellows and pinks. I notice the inspirational posters— so tacky I want to puke or light them on fire. Then, a bright-eyed, short woman with wavy, shoulder-length hair walks through the door and sets herself down in the chair placed before me. She looks at me for a while, almost as if she’s examining me. She looks at my collar bones and at my wrists, and suddenly I can feel the difference between us. I can feel the concern she contains, but also the understanding that she lacks. Finally, she takes a deep breath and says,

“I hear that you haven’t been eating…I can see it, too. Why is this? What is troubling you, my dear?”

I reply shortly and quickly that I simply am not hungry. She sighs and asks me if there is anything I’d like to talk about. Almost instinctively, I shake my head, gesturing that, no, there is nothing I’d like to talk about. I think that there are a lot of things that I need to talk about. I need a release. I need someone to open up to and for someone, anyone, to understand me. I am aware of the fact that, for someone to understand me, I must first open up to someone. But the thing is, I want a friend, not a therapist. My loneliness is so enormous that this woman is being paid to talk to me and attempt to provide me with comfort. I think that she can tell that I’m not thrilled about being here. She is probably just as uncomfortable as I am, she’s just better at hiding it. Once again, trying to pry something out of me, she asks:

“So, why are you here? What seems to be bothering you? I’d like to understand what you’re going through. I want to help you.”

“Um...well,” I pause and look around the room searching for a way to publish my thoughts into words, “I guess I just struggle to feel happy or 'normal,' whatever the hell that means.”

I pull at my sleeves and sink into myself.

“Can you elaborate on that a bit?” she asks me kindly.

I pause for a minute.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” I mumble.

“Okay, well I’ll give you a minute to think about it,” she suggests.

It is difficult for me to express my thoughts. I often struggle with making the correct words come out of my mouth. I stumble over my tongue or I come across the wrong way, making people think that I mean something different than I truly do. Mostly, it is extremely difficult for me to express my thoughts and feelings because I do not understand them, myself. My mind and my emotions are ever changing and often irrational. My emotions move a thousand times faster than what my mind is possibly capable of keeping up with.

“Well, I guess I just don’t see the point, sometimes. I don't want to get out of bed because my anxiety makes it nearly impossible to do anything other than sleep without fucking up somehow. I don't want to shower or look after myself because I’ll still be ugly anyway. I don’t want to go to school because I don’t want to live anyway. What’s the point of wasting my day in a classroom preparing for a future that I don't plan on attending? And as far as eating goes, maybe I just want to look as sick and fucked up as I feel. Maybe, for once in my life, I want someone to notice that I’m not okay. And, goddamn it, I want a friend. I just want someone to talk to, but I’m scared. I’m so fucking scared. There’s these voices in the back of my head screaming that nobody wants me to talk to them, so I don’t. I don’t know... it just feels like I’ve really hit rock bottom and every time that I think I can’t get any worse, I do. I feel like I’m going to burst.”

Tears peek out of my eye and roll down my cheeks. A solemn silence hangs in the air for a while before she takes my hand and holds it tight.

She looks me in the eye, heartfelt, and says:

“I can’t fix all of your problems, I’ll admit that, but I can support you through them. And another thing that I can do is promise you that, no matter what, no matter how unfulfilling, un-worthwhile, and unwelcoming this world may seem at times, somebody loves you. There is always somebody. And you, sweet child, will someday have a life that you look forward to waking up to, but you must fight. I can’t sugarcoat this for you. Life is hard, and it’s quite clear that you already know this, but if you want to get better, you must work at it. It doesn’t come easy and it’s not pretty, but for your life to change, you must change. It is necessary to make mistakes to grow, so do not be ashamed. Fight through today to build a better tomorrow, everyday.”

With tear stains coating my face, I gather up the stability to stand up and hug her.

“Thank you,” I say quietly as I breathe in a new perspective.