It feels like I am suffocating. Only there is nothing to suffocate on. I feel hollow, and I search for something. Anything, really. Before I had struggled to accept the idea that I would feel like this forever. Fought the idea that the way I felt wasn’t who I truly was, but something outside of me and outside of my control. But now, I understand that the notion that whatever is happening isn’t me, is highly unlikely, and frankly laughable. A year. That is how long I have been fighting this dark hole that has become so much of me, I feel unrecognizable. I have hurt the ones around me. I dragged people in, and I didn’t notice until now. I’m giving up. And I feel nothing.
But feeling nothing, isn’t really nothing. The emptiness that I feel is so all-consuming, and I constantly feel suffocated by it. It feels like I have no lungs to breath through. No brain to think. My insides feel like a blank wall that no matter how hard you hit, still stands. But nevertheless, I am calm. I have gone underwater. I’m not breathing. I’m not thinking. I can only feel the clarity water brings. And how clear things seem when you have nothing to block them.
My parents were scared. Wide eyes stared at me, but I refused to meet their gaze. By doing so, I knock down my walls, release the water. They’re talking to me. I, feeling, hearing, seeing nothing, don’t listen. I could hear them. But it was like listening through a door. Muffled.
I can’t hear over the hum that has taken over my brain. I can’t do anything. I can’t do this anymore. I. Give. Up.
And, suddenly, I can feel everything. Rushing. A rush of thoughts, of debris, of water. I could breath, and I could move. I could think. The calm was gone, but that was fine. As I breathed deeply, I realized. No matter how much clarity I felt under water, it was nothing compared to the feeling of coming up for air. And I just did.