Last night at 10,
on the edge of my bed
with my chin on my knees
and stared at the wall.
I thought about last years winter.
There weren’t enough sweaters
in the world
to warm the heart I had frozen.
Because thats the best way
to preserve meat, to stop it going bad.
But the icy shards stabbed
at my lungs and made breathing painful.
Made laughing painful.
Made living painful.
I thought about the way
I wouldn’t let the love I was shown
thaw my sadness.
to the back of my wardrobe
where lives the onesie I used to curl up in.
I hoped it would warm me
but it smelt of year old tears
and only served as a reminder
that I don’t know how to cry anymore.
I’m not as small as I once was.
And it can no longer cover
the entirety of my blues.
I glued pages of positivity
over journal entries from
a year ago, two years ago.
In some desperate attempt
to rewrite the past
and give the illusion I was happy.
I sat on the floor with a lighter
and tried to engulf my written history
Thinking it could turn back time
and warm my heart.
I watched the smoke curl up
and settle a foot below my ceiling
without bothering to open the window.
I stood in front of my mirror
with my fingers hooked around
the corners of my mouth.
Because the scientists say
smiling in turn makes you happy.
Something about endorphins
and tricking your brain?
But I don’t think scientists
have much experience with
feeling so numb you can’t cry
and so exhausted you don’t bother trying.
And I don’t think I can trick my brain
because my brain is me
and must know I’m trying to trick it.
I swallowed two sleeping pills.
I lay spread eagle on my bed
quietly singing Hannah Montana
in one last futile attempt to cheer myself up.
Because you know what else the scientists say?
You shouldn’t go to bed upset.
But for three years of my life
if I didn’t go to bed upset
when was I supposed to sleep?
It’s not socially acceptable
to sleep at parties,
which was the only time I could smile.
As the chemicals forced me to doze off
I wondered what it would be like
to be neurotypical.
To not have most of my life experiences
moulded by chemical imbalances
and all my milestones associated
with how close I was to killing myself.
showed me what I needed.
My dreams were filled with tears,
body shaking sobs that hurt my chest.
But my eyes were dry when I opened them.
And the only thing that hurt
was my lungs from the smoke still floating around.
So at 5,
I got up.
I opened the window,
and stripped my bed,
and took a shower,
and made an energy drink
that was ninety percent syrup
and ten percent water
to hide the fact I had barely slept.
Because lately I’ve been doing really well
and I don’t want my parents to worry.
I don’t want my friends to worry.
I don’t want you to worry.
But I’m allowed to have bad days.
Even bad weeks,
as long as they don’t turn into bad months.
They won’t turn into bad months.