Nothing’s happening.

Everything is fine.

But I feel like it’s not.

The smallest things scare me.

The unimportant things overwhelm me.

The craziness that only exists in my head

Is driving me mad.

I’m ready to quit.

I have been for a while.

But I’m too scared to quit.

And even more scared to keep going.

It feels like every time I go to take a step

I risk falling.

I want someone to help me

But I don’t want to be a burden.

I want to help myself

But I have no idea how.

I feel so stranded

And helpless.

I wish I could tell myself I’m just being stupid.

But every time I try to fall asleep

Everything crashes down on top of me.

My throat closes.

My chest feels like it’s being smashed.

And all I can do is cry until I tire myself out.

And then when I wake up

I have to pretend it never happened.

For the sake of others.

Or for my own.

Because if I ignore it, It’ll go away.

I know that’s not true.

But I like to believe it is.

Because admitting it feels like giving up.

And I already admit it to myself every time I go to bed.

Every time I have a panic attack.

Every time I walk into a classroom.

I remember those feelings.

And I try so hard to hide them.

Like when I was little and I thought that when my mother put her hands over her face

She wasn’t there.

I want to wake up but I don’t want to.

I want to keep dreaming.

Because my dreams are better than my reality.

Except for the nightmares that come every once in a while.

The nightmares make me beg for one peaceful dream.

One where nothing and no one gets hurt.

Where there isn’t such thing as darkness.

There’s only light.

And happiness.

It’s often that I find myself begging for one day where I can actually feel happiness.

And warmth.

And keeping up the battle myself makes me think it’s worth it.

Then sometimes I think nothing’s worth anything anymore.

And everything becomes meaningless.

Everything turns into plastic.