I am the Head of Household for two homes.

My parents’ house and mine.

I make the hard decisions and I make sense of sticky situations.

I have a “salesman” type of communication.

I tell you what I need and it gets done. I can convince you of anything.

For as long as I could remember, everything I have ever wanted, I have been able to get it with the choice of words I decide to use.

This is not including childhood, I just mean, as an adult.

With my witty personality, and great “she’s so nice” look, it has been very easy to relate to others. I analyze every situation and possibility and I come out on top, 99% of the time. The missing 1% is for the parenting part. That shit is hard and my babies “wants” will always be on top of mine, therefore, 1% is everything revolving my babies.

Having these abilities, no one would ever know that I have major anxiety and depression.

My alarm goes off at 04:55 a.m. every morning.

I wake up.

I lay there.

I should be getting ready for work; my work day starts at 6:30 a.m.

But I linger.

“What do I wear? Do I want to be comfortable, professional or …. naked”

Sweater and jeans it is.

I arrive at work at 6:34 a.m. every morning.

Could I have made it on time? Sure. If I would have saved myself those 35 minutes and self-doubt and tears while I wait for the “5:30 a.m. get your ass up” alarm to go off.

I am suppose to take medication for the depression and anxiety but it slows me down. I got shit to do.

While at work, I smile so much it hurts my face. I have an infectious laugh that some would even consider magical because I can make anyone smile. It drains me so much.

I can not stay seated in my chair for more than 20 minutes at a time without randomly getting up and walking around the plant.

I have a desk job that requires me to get up maaaybbeee four times a day. Usually no times a day. My job is at my computer.

I counted the times I got up yesterday.

32 times.

Unnecessary walking and roaming around the office.

When I get out of work, I make one stop to get my kids from daycare and parents’ house.

It’s back to business.

What bills need to be paid? What doctor appointments does dad need? Why did his life insurance premium go up?

45 minutes and everything and anything is answered and handled.

I wish I could just breathe.

The call me “Sergeant” there.

I just want to sleep.

I wait for you. I wait as I lay in wake. Wondering how you’ll greet me. Will it be while I laugh at something so silly? While I cry in the depth of despair? Leaving everything I have in my tears, and now I only have room for you? Perhaps.

Will you come when I'm not looking? When I’m happy, and it’s okay to be happy? It’s finally okay to be happy! Okay to love myself with such intensity I wonder if you were ever even real. Will I see you again? Does it even matter? Maybe.

It’s been so long since we’ve been together though. So long since I’ve felt so invincible with your arms wrapped around me. Too long since I’ve felt I could make all my desires come to fruition. Almost, painfully long since I’ve felt that burning in my soul making me feel so brilliantly alive; nothing could ever reach me. I felt so high.

It’s been so long I don’t feel safe in this wait. Waiting for you. Endless waiting. Waiting for you to wrap your claws around my neck and squeeze. Squeeze until I can’t speak. I say the words, but they're not what I mean. Your chains are attached to me now weighing me down. Dragging me down. Down to the depths of my soul where we fight. Dark against light we fight.

Everytime you seem to win. You win and you laugh. Laugh as I shrink into nothing. I disappear into your darkness. Where it's so cold I can see my breath and feel my bones break. But as I cry for help, no one can hear me. I just ache.

I keep fighting, never giving up. I run and jump, but you reach my ankles causing me to trip and fall back. All the way back down in a never ending whirlwind of torment. Until suddenly. I reach the bottom. Cold, hard, rock bottom.

I’m not alone this time. There’s someone here. Someone not yet broken by your evil cackling laughter. Someone who has a smile so bright the darkness starts to dissipate. Someone who looks like me. It is me.

I’ll free myself from your tyrant bonds, because this isn’t real. You're not real. You're just a shadow in the dark. A monster of my mania.

"Are you okay? You look sick."

Maybe it would be easier if I had admitted I was struggling a long time ago, back when it all started. I'm in too deep now. They don't look at me now, they look up to me - so how can I let them down? How can I admit I'm a fraud. I painted over my scars with smiles and decorated my burns with glitter. Wait until they find out what they're looking at isn't me, it's who I want to be. I act confident because I want to be confident, but they don't know anything.

They don't know how I have to feel pain to stop myself from giving into the urge, the urge to let it all go. The urge to ruin all the progress I've made, to go back to the girl who's weight and grades were the only thing that mattered to her. I left to start on a clean slate, in a place where people would never find out about my obsession, my obsession with being perfect. The cuts distract, they stop me from stepping on the scale. They stop me from linking my self worth to numbers.

'No one can know', the bigger, smarter part of me whispers but a small part of me begs for help. I know better than to listen to it. I look at my food, shoveling it into my mouth, the words tumble into my head. It's an avalanche, I have to push it down, and wait for the guilt to kick in. My friends are jealous, jealous of my grades, jealous of my confidence, jealous of my smile, jealous of me. Wait until they find out, it's all a lie.

I love pretending I don't care, but a loud voice in my head is screaming at me every time I eat, counting my calories for me - making sure I destroy myself to burn them at the end of the day. My head hurts but my heart hurts worse. I'm wearing a costume that seems to have seeped into my skin at some point. So you tell me, how can I ask for help? How can I ask for help when that voice is a part of me and it's all I've ever know. The only thing that's stayed by my side my whole life is killing me. It's a part of me, deeper than the cuts, deeper than the flesh, it's in my bones. The only way I know is to pretend it's not there, so that's why I push all these thoughts down and reply.

"I'm fine."

The shaking. The unease of self. Ok, it's definitely the coffee. This time, anyway. I will...Must...continue to record these emotions, tendencies, affects, of my Self that negatively impact me, or it likely will be quite a while before a change takes place.

Because I'm Ridiculously Loyal to the Resistance.

It is a conceivability that a Self like me will be stabbing, gouging, leeching...you get the point...Demanding the blood from myself...while simultaneously, honestly, puzzled...as to why the red is coming through.

My own worst enemy...

Hmmm....

My own little Universe.

Creating Life

Then snuffing it out.

Engineered for survival

Programmed to destroy.

Oh, dear ironic Universe,

Your always good for

a laugh...

I wasn't always broken. At one time I was happy. I thought nobody was gonna ever die. And I wasn't gonna be hurt but that was a fairy tail which I believed until 3rd grade. Their were rumors spread that I didn't take showers and had lice which were lies. I had a rough home life, fights, abuse. School was the one escape I had. Then it stopped being. I had a nice friend I met then she was the only person I told about my home life. I was always in trouble for little reasons. If I fought with my siblings. I cried all of the time. Then in sixth grade my old stepdad went to jail. But that didn't stop all things. I developed depression, anxiety, and PTSD. My dreams haunted me until I told my mom some of the abuse I endured. I talked about it more and more it helped a-lot. Still had the nightmares. My depression got the best of me in 8th grade. I was bullied and it was so many people. I was playing sick. Went to mental hospitals nothing had worked. I went to a short term rtf because of my mental health it was the one thing that worked. Till this day I still have bad days and good days. But I learned to cope with it. I lost my brother who lost his life because of his mental heath. I promised myself I wouldn't end up like him. And when I get older I wanna help others who struggled with some of things I have. We all have our struggles, but we caan get through it, it may be hard but it's worth the effort.

I wake up drenched in my own sweat. Unable to remember what the ghost of you had haunted me with last night. Left with no recollection but a pit in my stomach and a numbness in my soul that I can't explain. My mouth dry as if I was screaming out once again, yet it was the alarm blaring in my ears that pulled me from your memory not the warm embrace I'd been crying out for. I wake up convinced you've found me or are going to soon. Maybe if someone's arms would've pulled me from my nightmares filled with your broken eyes they could've reassured me. I'm not sure if reassurance is possible when it comes to you though . No matter how much healing and moving on I do no one can honestly tell me I'll ever be safe from you. The lack of information you I'm allowed only fuels the heart dropping, constant waiting feeling. At work, at school, even in my own bed. I'm always just waiting for to come for me. It sounds ridiculous when I try to speak or write the paranoia, people tell me you're smarter than to make any contact, to even lay eyes on me. But they never looked in your eyes when you started to lose control. They never saw the softness in your eyes turn to aggression as your voice got harder and your grip became painful. They never watched with pity and terror as you completely lost yourself inside your own mind after days without sleep. You looked me in the eyes as you calmly asked me if I could drive to the nearest hospital while your hand floated towards the gun waiting on the dashboard of your f-150. They never felt the helpless eye-watering weakness I felt when I had to sit there watching you, tears rolling down your face, talking like you'd lost control but in a tone like you were relaxed in the moment of insanity, lift that gun to your temple, lock eyes with me and explain how to make sure it was successful. Some of our memories are blurred and spotty from alcohol and drugs, some just from the time that's passed but too many are crystal clear and when they force their way into the front of my mind, it feels like I'm there all over again. Reliving the tears and laughter, the pain and freedom, the begging and fighting. I get taken back and it feels like I never made it out. like I will never be able to get out. At least not breathing. I want to make new memories of what love really is but I freeze at the idea that these nightmares can never be erased, that they may override all the beauty and love I've experienced since you.

"Anxiety is something everyone has."

That statement has been stated many times, by many people.

While everyone gets anxious sometimes, there are people, like myself, who get anxious a lot of the time. They get anxious over big things. They get anxious over the little things. They get anxious over nothing at all.

They question things no one ever wants to question for no reason.

They notice their friend is having a bad day. They think, "What happened? Are they okay? Do they need help? Did I do something? What if I did something and now they are not going to speak to me ever again?"

They overthink everything. They walk out of their house and think if they forgot something, or forgot to do something. When they leave they think, "did I lock the door? What if I didn't? What if someone breaks in and steals my cat? What if I left the stove on? What if my stove burns the house down? Did I forget the light on? Did I lock my car? Did I feed my cat? Did I see my cat this morning?"

So yes, some may experence the feeling anxiety, but others, Anxiety is a never ending plague.

Dread permeates every action, interaction, thought, feeling… the moment I look inwards to peek at the source through the cracks between my fingers (eyes covered by a child’s frightened hands), it floods my mind, fills every cobwebbed nook of my consciousness until self-preservation forces me to stem the flow however i can - don't look at it, just don't think about it, if you can't see it then it can’t see you. (Exhibit A: An ostrich. With its head. In the sand.)

Obviously, not the best solution. The main source is stemmed, a shaky dam of avoidance built. (Exhibit B: A beaver. Buckteeth prominent in a mouth hanging vacantly open. Eyes watching the latest distraction^media.) Still, the structure isn’t sound. I’ve never been good at building anything that lasts. Empty aesthetics, that’s me. Functionality? What’s that? (Exhibit C: A peacock. Farcically trying to take flight.) The ceiling leaks in uncountable places, a number beyond my ability to index and deal with. The house is damp and cold. The air smells of mold. Frivolous decorations hang listlessly on the musty walls. The floor is consistently and constantly aqueous - every step taken splashes in the inch or so of the ever present water and mire.

I've bred an ecosystem. Lots of creatures thrive in this environment, y’know. There’s a reason most human settlements avoid swamps. I wish I could escape too, but I’ve grown roots and the mushrooms have overtaken me. The swamp isn’t all bad. It can be pretty in its own way, and it definitely has some interesting inhabitants. Fish, amphibians, reptiles. Crocodiles. Never really was my crowd, to be honest, but I’ll take what I can get.

I long for the days where sunshine breaks through between the clouds, warms the skin of my cheeks, brings a cleansing breeze to beget yet another of the infinite new beginnings in existence at every moment. Gives me some hope. Usually of the false sort. The house starts to dry out a bit. (Exhibit D: A lizard. Basking in the sun.)

Of course, the sun inevitably goes away. It gives me a taste of what could be, even lets me have it for a time. I start to forget what damp feels like. Then the clouds come back and the sun disappears and the mold starts encroaching and I think, it’s okay, it’s temporary, the sun will come back sooner or later, I can hold on, but time creeps inexorably forwards and with it the memory of sunshine slowly fades until I can barely remember what it felt like. I go into autopilot because that’s easiest, everything else takes too much energy and I barely have enough of that to keep dragging my feet along. (Exhibit E: Sloth.)

I don’t have an ending in mind, I’m not capable of it. The sun will come back, I know that on an intellectual level. I even believe it, sort of. Doesn’t really change anything at present, though, does it?

Is the sunshine worth the mire?

Giving up never feels as good as you imagine it would.

The dejection sets in further than you ever could have imagined. Mirrors become something you avoid like a vampire trying to day walk.

The death knell in your mind is only confirmation of what you already suspected. Perhaps what you already knew. You were too weak to make it. Sabotage was a familiar friend and you can't quite tell if you're doing it right now but goddamn, if your rationalizations don't help you figure that shit out.

I used to think giving up was brave and shitted on people who tried to say it was cowardly to go out the hard way. Now I realize that it is neither cowardice nor bravery. It is unavoidable, omnipotent and the only path forward once a normal human being suffers to the point that they come to the decision -- well. It is the only decision.

People don't arrive at the precipice for no reason. They don't come without transportation. The vehicle that transports you you've likely known your whole life. Perhaps your dad, your mother. You grandparents, or your uncles and aunts. Perhaps they ALL chipped in.

Now they're just mad that you dented it, and that you took it over to the edge of this cliff barely managing not to total it in the ravine below. As you hang over the precipice, the only concern anyone will have is that the rope you're tethered to on the solid ground is fraying.

It's that place I call home;

Dark, damp and lonely;

No place anyone would choose to roam;

The outside scares me;

But inside I don't want to be alone;

There is a struggle within me that needs connection but fears being left out in the cold;

I get out of bed with plans for days ahead;

Instead find myself immobilized and under my bedspread;

Searching for my cloak of disguise;

Keeping up this charade letting no one know the battle that pulls me from inside;

The life force of energy fills me but the world depletes me;

They all don't know the ghosts that haunt me secretly;

The pain, loss, insecurities that coexist under the surface;

The strength it takes to keep them at bay it's like managing a circus;

They don't know how one misspoken word can put an ache so deep in my heart that I question my own purpose;

The one thing I do know… is I am more than this darkness.