Struggling.

I just can’t breathe.It’s like the rain kept pouring.

The world became smaller and smaller until now.

I am in a glass coffin,

the water is falling from the ceiling,

rising up my legs,

up my arms,

up my neck.

I’m sputtering out each exhale,

fighting with the downpour of tears to manage the next breath,

under this faucet that has no off valve.

Slowly choking.

Suffocating in this glass box.

This is not a sitcom.

This is real life.. my life.

On display for the masses.

I stare in the mirror and hate the bruises that have not yet formed from the screams I’ve yet to give.

Some where there is a whipping post with my name on it.

I have to get out of this box.

I have to stay above this flood line.

It’s coming..

I can’t do this alone.

The lights are blinding,

The water is cold,

the world is so very small.

I can’t breathe.

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Reality

Imagine being in a dark room, cold, void, lonely and quite scary.Are you there? – in your mind can you see that?, imagine being in that room for as long as you can remember, and at night, the faces, the whispers, mocking you, coldly reassuring you that you are always going to be alone, with just them. 

Do you know who they are? They are your fears, your doubts, your obsessions, your demons, everything that has driven you to that dark room.
Then imagine you can hear someone on the outside of that room, speaking, through the wall, at first you don’t want to hear them, just another nasty trick, I mean who would be interested in talking nicely to YOU?!

But, No, They are there, they are still talking to you, telling you things are going to be okay, they start creating chinks in that wall, tiny shafts of light start illuminating that room, the faces, they don’t like that light, the voices, they don’t either, they get less and less, the light gradually gets more and more. 
Still with me? 

Eventually, there is a hole in the wall, almost the whole room is full of light, that same person is beckoning you towards the hole in the wall away from that room, you’re apprehensive, so you take some talking around, but eventually you trust them, I mean they have freed you, only the deepest and darkest corners still aren’t touched by the light, you are about to walk out through that hole, into nothing but light, then that room itself will become a distant memory, and that same person who reassured you, who freed you, they push a boulder over the opening and walk away, all the lights gone, the faces come back worse than ever, their annoyed you almost left them. 

That room never seemed so dark, so cold, so void. Thing is, the only way out through this seemingly endless density of solid wall, is to scratch your way out – with your bare hands.

You sit and consider this for some time, then think, even if I do get out there isn’t anyone waiting on the outside, so what is the point in hurting yourself in the struggle to get out, just to be as alone out there, as you are in here. 

Other voices, not as strong – you can hear them on the outside of the wall, making feeble attempts at reassurance, but you don’t want to hear them anymore, no more hope, that person took all that with them, the first time you trusted someone, they broke it, shattered it like a mirror, why would you trust someone ever again? 

Its okay, you can stop imagining that cold room now, come back to the reality of where you are sitting, feel the warmth, see that soft light, but spare a thought, that I cannot stop, because what you have just imagined, is my reality every single day.

Bones & Ashes

I feel like I cannot feel again    

The depth is gone The edge is gone 

           I’m emotionless and stoic

   I’m static and white noise 

              I donot feel anymore 

     I’m dangerously numb,

All I do feel is anger burning holes in my skull

         So full of words begging to be let out.

   I’m so lost in my nest of decisions 

       I regret my flight and my freedom 

    I regret everything I did n didn’t do 

             These feelings are for me 

    And shall consume me 

           Till there are only bones and ashes

        

Seven days 

Monday.
she wakes up with tear-streaked eyes and her window panes clouded with broken promises. she’d smile, but there’s no fixing other people’s mistakes.


Tuesday.
she decides that we all have twins living in an alternate dimension, and whenever they do something terribly wrong we get punished here. it’s really the only way to explain why things just can’t be fair.


she wouldn’t mind life being just a game of chance, if she had better luck.


Wednesday.
she wonders if fake smiles can buy her way into hearts. she wonders if smiles can buy anything, anymore.


she needs to stop complaining.

Thursday.
she falls asleep with no will to live, praying that god please –ohpleasegod erase her permanently.


Friday.
the sun rises red with apathy and regret. if he was there he would deprive her and torment her just how she likes it and hold her down under the covers. but she wakes up alone, and she wakes up alive.


Saturday.
she goes to the park to watch little girls in flowered dresses twirl and kick up dirt under cute pink shoes. they press tinytiny fingers to redred lips and when they breathe in fresh air they actually want it in their lungs.


Sunday.
she starts to pretend they are all dead, after the realization that it’s easier than believing they chose to leave her.

‘this is my past lover, good friend, family, the died in a fatal accident one night when

the collision of hearts was too strong. I was the only survivor.’

In reality, she died too.

“Cheer up..”

I’ve heard so many people tell those who suffer depression to just ‘cheer up.’ I wonder if they can really believe that it’s that simple. 

Depression isn’t just sadness. It is emptiness, it is misery. It is pain and nothingness at once. When you are truly depressed you lack the ability or will to cheer yourself up. No one just ‘has depression.’ You suffer from it. This is depression:

You will wake at 5, 6, maybe 7am, feeling as though you had only just fallen asleep. It’s likely you did. If you don’t have to be somewhere, you could lie in bed for another 3 hours…too tired, too miserable and pathetic to crawl out of you bed. Or maybe you will sleep until 1pm, because it’s so much easier to sleep through most of the day than actually live it, and you’re so unbelievably tired anyway. You will push through the day, knowing that every hour will be a struggle and not knowing how you will feel tomorrow. People will ask what is wrong, and you will simply smile and say ‘nothing, I’m just tired.’ Yes you are tired. You are so tired of drifting through every day, with no will to actually live. But you simply smile, and they’ll believe you. It’s so much easier to lie anyway, and most of the time you can push away the guilt. Sometimes you might find a way out, temporary as it may be. You might write or draw or sing. Or you might cut, burn, binge, purge, drink, starve, scratch, pull, overdose…anything to take your mind away from the utter misery it seems to be so obsessed with. What you don’t know is that soon these acts will take over your thoughts. You will spend your days not only lost in the haze of depression, but your mind will be so consumed with these thoughts of escaping and self destruction that you think you could explode. You will see a series of lines, and think of the lovely scars you could make, where you will make them. Your mind will be permanently spinning with thoughts of this pain, and different ways you might destroy yourself or, more precisely, this monster inside you. But of course none of this will work. You will still spend your night alone, sitting and staring at nothing, completing mindless tasks as if they have some importance, as if you are really there. Be careful where you let your mind wander. Night time is the darkest time in depression. That’s when all the demons come out, when you become weaker. It is when you will hurt yourself simply to make the urges stop for 5 minutes. It is when you will spend hours crying or screaming for no reason other than the agony inside. You will shake and feel as though your whole body will cave in or explode. No one will understand. You do not have hospital beds, drips, bandages or needles to make people worry. To make them realize that this sad little girl is actually sick and needs help. Of course the depression will have destroyed any self esteem you might have had, so you’ll be too scared to ask for the help you need. You just go on, hoping someone will notice your slow, meticulous self-destruction. Don’t worry, it won’t always be so bad. Some days you might even feel stable. You might walk tall for one day, feeling a glint of hope that maybe one day things will get better, that things are getting better and you have the strength to fight. Then one small thing will go wrong, and you’ll fall apart all over again. You feel stupid for even considering that things could get better. 

Have you ever felt as though your whole body could just crumble any minute? Just crumble and fall apart, like it’s lost anything it had holding it together. That’s what it feel like all the time to be depressed. That raw fragility. It feels as though the smallest disruption in our life, or in your head, or in the world, could send everything spiraling downwards. And it can. The tiniest mistake can cause you to hate yourself more than you could possibly imagine. The smallest crack in your world can make it all seem pointless.
Depression destroys any resources you have. Any strength or courage you kept stored away for emergencies. So if the tiniest little storm hits, you are left to trying to survive the ravages of a cyclone without a life boat. It wears you down and even the smallest crack can seem like an earthquake and every minute is spent waiting for the next shake. And then one day, you will find yourself curled up on your bedroom floor, sobbing, because you can’t find anything to wear. Every little thing is just more proof of how worthless you are.

Eventually, you begin to expect it. You anticipate the bad times, because you know the good times are just fooling you. And they are filled with fear and anxiety over when everything will come crashing down again. You are always waiting for the next breakdown. You’ve become so accustomed to feeling miserable, that happiness is a foreign feeling that you won’t even let yourself experience. You don’t deserve it. So you become numb, which at times, is worse than the full-blown screaming and crying depressive ‘episodes.’ You find yourself begging to hurt again, or in my case begging to be used because any feeling is better than feeling nothing at all.

Depression is one of the cruelest of all illnesses. You see, it’s much easier to fight when you can see an end to it all. When you know that in the end you will either win or lose. But whatever the outcome, the war will be over. The thing about depression is it blurs your perception of the future and makes it near impossible to see that end. You start to think that there’s no such thing as ‘winning’ and why bother fighting if you already know the outcome. It gradually strips you of any hope you previously had. And without hope, it’s difficult to see a future or a reason to fight.

Never will you know me 


Not living up to your expectations. Nothing but hate and disgust in your eyes when you have to bring yourself to look at me. I’m sorry i didn’t turn out the way you expected. I’m that fucking disappointment.. your disappointment. Living each day as a regret, a regret that i have not yet taken my life. So, here i stand in front of you, battered and betrayed. tell me how pathetic i am. Your taunting words a constant reminder of how worthless my existance is. A paining disease burrowing itself deep within my conscious , corrupting my once innocent thoughts..Never will you know me mother, nor the mental pain which you have inflicted upon me. A scared girl, shattered and broken. Hate and disgust being the only emotion to grace me. The scars haunting my dreams, the nightmares seemingly like paradise in comparison to my life. i’m sorry i didn’t turn out like you wished.

You ever get that feeling..

.. The one where you just need to feel someone’s hand around your throat. Or in your hair. Or on your face.

Yes.. the sting & shock as their palm collides with your face.

When you just want to feel a forceful kiss upon your lips. Some harsh words whispered in your ear.

When all you can think about is being forced to the floor, not because the floor holds some unknown appeal, but because that’s how low you need to feel. As though it’s the only place you deserve.

The need to feel leather bruising your skin.. or skin, or hands, or fists.

That desire to feel completely used, uncared for.. Maybe even cast aside once your done with.

When the most appealing thought in your mind is that of being abused.. degraded & humiliated.

To feel fear. Real, mind rendering fear at what might happen to you. To be so frightened you can’t speak, you just comply.

When all you want is to feel warm tears running down your face & the burn in your chest as you realise how much what’s happening is hurting you. Hurting you physically. Paining you mentally and making your heart ache.

To feel so low.. That when it’s all over you’ll finally be able to feel better? Better than you did before it started. Because it’s what you need, it’s what you crave?
Yeah, that. 

Despite the fact that I’ve not recovered yet from the last time It’s what I feel right now.

I think my soul leaked.

The lights hurt me; the sounds do too. Everything hurts. I hide behind my hands. It’s not enough to calm me down. It’s not enough to protect me.

I’m not shaking. My breathing isn’t heavy. It’s all inside. I’m paralyzed. This is nothing, I say to myself. I’m not even shaking, this is stupid, I say. Why don’t you move? Why? But I just can’t. I want to cry.

 I’m mad at myself for being so weak. I’m mad at myself for being sick while my body isn’t showing any signs. I’m not shaking. I feel stupid. You’re a mess, Rosie. 

My hands are glued to my forehead, like a small roof infusing my eyes with a light darkness. I can’t move. If I move I won’t be fine. I find a semblance of comfort and safety in this position. 

My body wouldn’t respond anyways, would it? If I try to move I’ll fall, won’t I? If I don’t see him, he doesn’t exist therefore he can’t see me and I can be fine.

I want to cry. I just want to go home. I want to hide. I need silence and the comfort of my bed to relive this moment over and over in my head and torture myself. I don’t want to be here anymore. But I don’t want to move. 

To get out, I’ll have to take my hands away from my face and that’ll leave me exposed. Exposed to the light, the sounds, the eyes, the room. I don’t want to face this. 

Maybe if I remain like this long enough I’ll disappear; or maybe he will. I want to try this. I don’t feel strong enough to look up. This denim skirt makes my legs look fine. These are my legs. From my body, right?

I hear her speak. Her?? It’s so far yet so close. She says “I’ll help you home , okay?” No, it isn’t okay. It’s not. But if it isn’t for you I won’t get out of here. She moves and grabs my jacket. I can’t get up. She’s waiting for me. 

I don’t care if I have to rip my skin off to get those hands away from me. I get up. I’m sorry. But thank you, oh thank you so much. My skin is intact. But I’m burning up. 

We walk. I can’t look up. The noise is killing me. I stare at her feet and follow them. I say sorry to them. My tongue is missing. My mouth is a hollow cavity that cannot even gulp down enough air to ease the lightheadedness. Thank you for saving me from this hell. Does she know?? 

She stops many times. Let’s get food. You need sugar. There are so many people. They’re all probably staring at me right now. “Look at that weird bruised girl with her eyes glued to the floor.” “Why does she play with her hands like that?” I feel ugly. Stop staring. We wait in line to pay. This feels like forever. I feel weird. Tea with 4 sugars she all but forced down me. 

It’s okay.

We walk out. I close my jacket and put my hood up. I don’t want to see the lights and surely not the people in the streets. I stare at the ground and let my feet do the job. I’m on autopilot. My body is. My mind is busy overthinking everything and going back on old and fresher memories and stamp everything with guilt, shame, doubt or anything else it feels the need to. I feel like crying but it won’t work. I let my feet carry me. They know the damn road too well by now. I feel horrible. Shaking. But not very much still.

Halfway home. Now I feel numb. I open my jacket. It’s getting hot in here. Get rid of the hood. The light doesn’t hurt anymore. I don’t feel very real. I think about my small room and how it’s devoid of people; how it’s devoid of the outside world. I feel sad. Is this how my life shall be till the end? I don’t like being alone. I don’t like this poisonous bubble. But part of me doesn’t want to pop it; not that I could.

Home. 

Goodbye Rosie get some rest you’ll be fine. 

Finally inside. I get rid of the damn jacket and walk into the bathroom. I’m slightly shaking and my breathing is heavy but not so much. I take my clothes off and wish someone would do it for me. This is so tiring. I manage. I get in the shower and almost burn to death. I can’t think fast enough. After three tries, I get the right temperature; not really, but good enough. I stand numbly under the water and let it wash away the infinite bullshit I am covered in. I can’t cry. I get out.

Now I’ve got to put clothes on. The. Struggle. I don’t feel anything anymore. I brush my teeth. Boy, do I look ugly. So much darkness on my face. My soul leaked again, I think. 

I stare into space as I mechanically fill a glass of water and sit on the bed. I grab my computer. It’s so slow. Please, don’t do this right now. I need some music. It’s finally on. Struggling to give me what I ask for, but hey, I can’t complain. “Like master, like pet” or whatever. I finally get my music. I hesitate. I don’t know what I need right now, I think. I listen to one song. Then another one. Still not it. I DON’T KNOW. I finally settle on Nine Inch Nails downward spiral album and open my WordPress tab.

I type down some shit on a draft. I start typing what I think will be a poem but soon turns out to be a weird somehow vague post about how fucked I am. I’m hungry but I brush it off; my body won’t accept it, I won’t swallow and ugh. The pain sets in. Every inch of my body aches. Painkillers. I throw them back my neck.
I post what I wrote and pick a book in the hopes of finding some peace of mind. My stare is still very far away. I’m not here anymore. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be back in the cockpit. Maybe not. Every day is a surprise. What will I get? What degree of hell? How will I manage?