I feel like I'm trapped.
I'm trapped inside a very dark and cold room, with five different heaters going. But none of them are warming me up; I'm stuck in a forever blizzard of coldness. My friends are nowhere to be seen, sitting alone in a room full of smiling strangers. Everyone's trying to make pleasant conversation, but I just can't help but feel like burden. No one wants me here, I'm just taking up space and drinking their booze.
I mean at least I do have alcohol, my only friend. My only way out of this catastrophic hell we call our mind. My thoughts are my own worst enemy, and even when I do try and try to block them out, I get caught up in them, caught up in the never-ending self-hate. So I just smile, get up, and walk to kitchen to see my only friend. At least it knows how to distract me. At least I can drink and drink and drink and the more I do, the more my mind is turned off. The less pain I can feel.
You see that's how my nights go; I'm on here writing this at, let's see, the clock lights up the numbers 02:45 PM. I slept for that long?! But I mean it's good, sleep. It's one thing I never get enough of, thanks to that pesky brain again. I'm trying to recount my steps from the night before but it never plays out. I just remember music and booze, then it gets fuzzy and my head starts to hurt from all the thinking. I somehow ended up getting home and to my bed, so I guess that's all that matters. Well, to everyone around me that is. I could give a fuck less about my safety, or life for that matter. There's a reason I go 45 down a 35 road when there's 1/2 an inch of ice on the ground.
So, I'm trapped again, in my mind. My roommates try to ignore the fact that I've been locked in my room for days on end. They ignore the fact that I have red lines on my scarred arms. They ignore the countless bandaid wrappers in the trash and scattered on the bathroom floor. Why? Cause I'm smiling, right? Oh, if it's really bothering her she'll come talk about it. Oh, if she's really that bad again, she'll go to the doctor and talk about it. Anyways, she's in therapy; she's got to be talking to them and they've got to be helping. Right? Doctors always know the right things to say, the right medicine to give. They never fuck up, right?
If all these things were true, then how are they still human? The truth? They wouldn't know the truth if it was a stone brick that went flying through the windshield of their brand new car. They wouldn't know the truth if they woke up one day to their "best friend" laying in a pool of her own blood cause she took one too many of those pills, they know she's been abusing. The truth?
You really want to know?
The truth is no, I'm not okay. I'm not "fine." I don't think I'll ever be "okay." I don't think I'll ever get out of this prison in my brain; my parents taught me growing up to keep it all in. They taught me that even the one who gave birth to you will walk away. They taught me that no one likes to listen. They taught me that hurt will be with you no matter where you go and that EVERYONE is blind.
And my brothers? Yeah, my oldest taught me that no one will ever look at me for the soul that's on the inside. All people and society will ever want from me is sex, and what my body can offer. The other four taught me that it was okay to look away. It was okay to act blind to the truth that they knew was going on in the room next to them. It's okay, it's normal. It's brotherly 'love'. It's not like he's killing me... physically that is.
So, yeah, I'm trapped in my mind and it's killing me. But no one will help, no one wants to. Who could ever listen or care about someone like me?