Anxious

If you've been there you know. If you haven't you could never understand.

She remembers every mistake she ever made. That time when she used the flash in that museum in Washington D.C., the night she was escorted home by the police for sneaking out past curfew, even the time she cheated playing ‘Go Fish’ with her boyfriend. She knows it makes no sense. Her thoughts are irrational, she knows that, but it’s irrelevant. She can constantly remind herself her thoughts are illogical, but she still thinks them. Its compulsive.

            Uncontrollable.

                        Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

She feels stupid because she knows, but she can’t change the way she is. When she’s alone she tries to force herself not to think. /she sings to herself, tries to watch TV, maybe read a book. But she runs out of songs, TV is for lazy people, and there are no books left for her to read. She thinks about going for a jog, she could use the workout, but she’d look silly going by herself. She decides to call a friend.

A girl comes over carrying an overnight bag. Something clinks inside, but her mom doesn’t question it. She goes to her room and the girl takes out a bottle of whiskey. Party time. A little while later the girl takes some Xanax, offers her some. She accepts. One.

                     Two.

                                 Three.

1:00 pm. Overslept. The light on her phone blinks alerting her to a new message. Four missed calls all from her boyfriend. He’s worried. He wants to know where she is, who she’s with, what’s she doing, is she ok? She thinks.

“Am I ok?” No. but she can’t tell him that. This isn’t the first time. He doesn’t understand. Can’t understand. Now she feels bad. She knows she was wrong.     

“It didn’t feel wrong.”

But she hurt him so it can’t be right, can it?

“It is right. This is what you deserve. You are nothing. You do not deserve to be cared for.”

That’s not true.

“It is.”

No it’s not.

“Really? No job, no car, bad grades, fat, ugly, scarred. There is nothing special about you. You’re worthless.”

Xanax. One.

                        Two.

                                    Three.

           Four. Washed down with whiskey.

A song is playing somewhere. Its far away. She can’t reach it. Wait, yes she can. It’s her cell phone. Her boyfriend again. She sighs, he’s too good for me. She moves slowly toward the bathroom. She feels disconnected. Her body doesn’t belong to her. She looks in the mirror.

            That’s not me.

It is her. Her eyes are bloodshot and her hair is stringy. Her face is red and covered in scabs. She should stop picking at it. She needs a shower. She turns the water on hot. Scalding. To wash away her filth.

The water comforts her. Caresses her body, keeps her warm. Her soap smells good. Vanilla. It reminds her of winter. She turns the water off. She brushes her teeth. Looks in the mirror. She needs makeup. Lots of makeup.

            Better. Not good, but better.

She goes to her room to get dressed. She puts on some jeans and a cropped tee. Almost pretty.

            Not pretty enough.

A tear slips down her cheek. She quickly wipes it away. Crying is useless. It means you’re weak. The thought makes her cry more. She reaches for the bottle of whiskey.

            Empty. Xanax. Gone

Where? She doesn’t remember. They should be here. She lost them because she wasn’t paying attention. It’s her fault. Always her fault. Now she’s angry. Why should she feel this way?

“Stop thinking like this. It makes no sense. You just want to make yourself miserable. You’re in AP and IB classes. You’re pretty. You volunteer. Your boyfriend loves you. You have good friends.”

But she’s not good enough.

She should be better.

            Stronger.

                        Smarter.

                                    Prettier.

She should be better. But she’s not better. She’s average and average is not good enough. Average is not excellent. She should try harder, but she doesn’t. she’s mediocre. Not even worth mention. She starts to pick at her skin. Scabs open up and start bleeding. They’ll leave ugly marks later. She tells herself this. She knows she should stop. Over and over again. In her head she screams “stop! Why are you doing this? Don’t you know you’re going to look like s**t tomorrow? Whatever. Make yourself ugly. That’s all you’re good for anyway.” She wants to stop, but she can’t. Her hands keep picking. All her scabs are open and bleeding. She needs a cigarette.

That’s what she needs. Nicotine will calm her nerves. She watches as the flame ignites and little embers work their way up the paper. She watches the end glowing red. Smoke fills her lungs as her hand starts to shake. Slow suicide. “why not? No one will miss you.”

They will. She knows that, but the thought still poisons her mind. She is anxious. Anxiety is a poison that eats away at the soul and rips out the heart. Anxiety is a part of her. It pushes her around. Makes her feel like a paper doll. She wants to fight it, but doesn’t know how. How long will she suffer? Anxiety poisons her. She poisons herself. The cycle never ends. She will not be free until she is dead. Until then the poison corrodes her. The poison is going to kill her.

 

Reviews

[Krys]

Very well written, but, hopefully not totally true of this writer.