Looking for silence.
Looking for silence.
I have this friend who likes to
Stab me in the back and
Shake out all the bad blood so that I can
Twist on the blade and dance
To sing-song remedies and
This friend will lick my neck and
Kiss my brow until
I’m lathered in moist drops of
Ears bleed from constant chitter
Chatter in my head like a nutcracker
Dim buzzing on-and-on-and
I can’t stress enough-
We’re just friends.
Constantly squeaky chair from my constant leg movements.
Twiddling with any accessories.
Playing with my hair.
Biting my finger enough to leave a mark.
Muttering when I’m walking.
Singing under my breath.
Saying the Alphabet in French in my head.
Translating a conversation into another language to be able to process it with less fear.
Sitting on my hands to stop me scratching myself.
Hitting myself if I am alone.
These are just some of my nervous fidgets. I tend to find it quite hard to keep still, these days. When I am still, it means something is seriously wrong with me and I’ve had to zone out to cope with whatever is happening. When I am not still, it’s mostly because I am nervous. As confident a person as I am, I have my weakness, and that is worrying and fidgeting. I had many teachers who told me I was a worrier, that I shouldn’t be sat up at 3am emailing them about why I couldn’t do an essay, that I shouldn’t be apologising so profusely all the time. But I think my upbringing and my general nature means that I always need to get it right, and by having all these fidgets, I can balance out my natural wrongs. Or, at least, that’s what my brain tells me.
I just thought I would share these for some reason, probably because I’ve been making a very satisfying squeaky noise with my chair since I sat down on it, and it brings me a great deal of comfort and I wanted to share how my safety lies in doing things to distract me from the fear of not doing anything when I could. How odd we are, as people, people.
I know I’m the one you want to forget.
Fall Out Boy is a great band, I’ve got to say. But they are not the reason I’m writing this post.
I’ve had 4 panic attacks in as many days. The crippling symptoms of panic overriding all your instincts, putting them down to fight or flight, and not knowing what to do have taken over my body too many times this week. This is not the first time I have suffered a complete meltdown of the senses. They are a more regular occurrence than I could learn to cope with, and this has been the worst week for numbers yet. I’ve had them in front of people and alone with my reflection or the dark as a blanket. I have suffered panic attacks in my sleep, waking up to myself frozen with fear and anxiety. These incidences started since I began university, and often I wake up choking. Before then, even my reflection could set panic into my veins, and that’s before we get the moments where I felt claustrophobic in the presence of people who wanted more from me than I could give. Whilst I clearly don’t have panic disorder as they aren’t extremely regular, the threat of a panic attack looms over me whenever I can feel my body starting to rebel.
I don’t think my parents take it seriously, or want to accept what happens when they occur. I think it scares them or they just think I am overreacting. But when you are literally paralysed with panic and cannot move your limbs which are numb yet somehow tingling, you feel like you’re being strangled and kinda would prefer death to switch off the confusion and utter desperation, then I don’t think you can ignore it for long.
This post isn’t really going anywhere; I just needed to document this moment of feeling tired, because I’m exhausted. Thanks for reading, or something.
Stone me with your words.
Make terror leak from my skin.
In indelible ink, mark in my sin.
I’ll give you anything
To make it stop.
Pleading cries to venomous eyes.
From earnest truth to blatant lies.
I’ll lie down, accept my demise
Because I’m wrong.
The worn and the wary.
The devil and the fairy.
The murderer and the jury
Is a battle already won.
Hurt me and bruise me.
Taunt me and choose me.
You will never lose me
Because you never had me to begin with.
Stone me for all I care because
So help me, God…
If you are there,
So I might climb
Without a stair,
To heavens gold
To dream anew,
To end another path with you.
See, you see me, God
See you, see me.
So help me God
Your long lost child
To conquer all
That is reviled
And set aside
A place for me
Though please in depths of misery.
See…you see me, God.
You see me.
So help me, God.
Help me find
My translucent skin
I’ve left behind
This coloured stone
This flesh charred black
It won’t give you your child back.
See, you know, God.
You know me.
So help me, God.
Help that long, long winter
Please forgive me, for I have sinned,
Trespassed to thoughts I daren’t dream,
And with reproach, I ask Thee,
Please- please forgive me.
See, you see me God.
You’ll help me.
I’m constantly panicking. About everything.
Everything worries me.
There’s a niggle in my brain telling me all sorts, and the paranoia I get over some simple things is, quite simply, astounding. Well, it astounds me anyway. Enough to make me stop what I’m doing and just want to either:
a) hide in a cave by myself
b) rock back and forth, gently, all whilst muttering silently to myself.
I get it; it’s not a healthy habit.
So tell me again: why am I sat here, avoiding revision, avoiding lots of very bad things, avoid lots of very good things, and feeling my skin is on fire, like I would claw it off if I could (and trust me, sometimes I have tried), and feel like if I move, the world will come crashing down and I will drown because of my own breathing?
I can’t walk down the street by myself without breaking into sweat, often. And it’s not because of the heat, because it’s cold and damp right now. I often have to mutter things under my breath or hum to get me from location A to B. It is a little bit disconcerting for the people walking past me but, hey ho, they will probably never see that really weird girl ever again. I’m just a passing shadow who is uncomfortable in her own body. I feel like my limbs are excessive to me, like my being is surplus to my mind, and like my mind is the most foul thing which needs to be vanquished. But, these thoughts aren’t supposed to be a thing. Nope. I’m supposed to be happy and intelligent and thoughtful and rational and…and…and. More.
I’m supposed to be more.
But I feel like I am more than I am and I don’t want that extra. I don’t want any of it.
I want to be the least I can be, until I almost disappear.
And I don’t like feeling things which make me realise that I am complicated, because it hurts my brain and my soul and everything. And I wish I could de-soul myself. I want to be reduced to being forgotten. And people try and tell me that I am wrong for feeling like this.
It just makes me feel like my skin is peeling off me and you should know that, right now, I feel like I’m burning up with the stress and tension of existing. Forget the atrocities of the world for a second (because once they are added into the mix, can you really stand living?).
Think about looking in the mirror and literally not recognising yourself. Not feeling human. You disassociate yourself from your body. I am typing on this laptop and I feel somewhat disgusted by the fact that I apparently have arms because I want to disown them. They are feeling weird and tingly. I know it’s strange, but it’s what I am.
I don’t recognise myself.
It’s absurd, and it’s unwelcome. And if anyone can convince me how to calm down, I will almost certainly look forward to your advice.
I don’t need to live like this but I do and I am tired, tired, tired.