A Mile

You'll never know what it's like until you've walked a mile in his shoes, a mile through his Hell, a mile through his misery, a mile through the eyes of a victim. A victim whose past is what horror stories are based off of, and whose future looks dim. A victim whose heart beats black blood soiled by pain, whose tears are acid, whose scars can tell an epic for each one. His mind jumps from one fear to another, focusing on feigned threats to his health.

By the end of that trip, your feet will be aching, burning, covered with blisters, blood, and there will be tears spilling from your eyes. His shoes are a void of agony made of barbs and broken glass and knives instead of fabric. Instead of laces they are tied together by Depression and Anxiety and suicide and self-harm and the pain of it all. You'll see his flashbacks. You'll hear the insults. You'll feel his pain. You'll feel his heart ache, his tears burn, his scars sting, his mind racing. You'll learn more about him than anyone ever will.

You can say, "I can only imagine!" But you really can't. You can't imagine the suffering that he goes through every day. You can't imagine how he struggles to find the words to express what's happening to him. You can't imagine how the pain burns like a cigarette being pushed through his skin, how it feels like he's eating broken glass. He's trying to scream for you to help him, but all that comes out is, "I'm fine."

You can say, "Cheer up!"  You simply don't know what it feels like. You don't feel the acid tears or the fiery air. You don't feel the way his nails etch white lines into his skin or the erasers bring scars onto the flesh. You don't feel the sting of every single insult from every one or the stabbing pain of the insults from himself.

You can say, "You don't have anything to worry about." You don't have to see a problem to know that it's there. Sometimes he just can't help it. Sometimes he can't help but blame himself for things that he was never the cause of. Sometimes he can't help but beat himself up for things that are so small no one else remembers that they happened.

The lies, oh how the lies burn like cigarettes being pushed through his skin. Oh how the lies feel like eating broken glass. The lies and the insults that he says to himself are the worse than what the others can say. They try to pierce his heart but they can't because he has already beat them to it.

But the truth, oh how the truth is a dream being whisked away by the wind. Oh how the truth is so close yet so far, but Mental Illness has pushed it even further away. He can't hear the truth but he can hope. Hope is all that he has at this point, and he can't wait for the future.

He can't wait for the day that he's healthy, free from Mental Illness.

He can't wait for the day where he can step out into the sun and not be afraid of the darkness.

He can't wait for the day where he can live without hoping for death.

He can't wait for the day that he won't cry acid tears or breathe in fire or breathe out his soul.

He can't wait for the day that he can be normal

But right now, he can't wait for death.

Right now, he can't wait for the darkness to swallow him whole.

Right now, he can't wait for the splitting pain from the acid and the fire.

Right now, he's not sure that he can live through this Hell.

So the next time that you decide to insult some one on the way that they are or the way they act, remember this story. Remember that you have no idea what they go through every day. Remember that they might be going a deeper pit of Hell than you are.

Author's Note

All critique welcome.