I am in the prelude of my next Anxiety Attack but this time, for the first time I am aware that it's happening.
The cold hands, the painful neck, the turning stomach.
I am aware that the monster is coming back.
The sore eyes, the heavy head, the numb lower lip.
Its almost like I'm getting a frame by frame experience of the pain that is coming my way.
Usually I would draw or sing or write a poem or five to calm me down but today I am paralyzed.
I want to tell my mom or my boyfriend about it but they both have such faith in me that I fear my collapse in hope would cast a shadow of doubt over all that I am.
The fear of failing is all too familiar to me.
Actually failing destroyed me. I have never thought of this until today because I need to drag my body to the campus office to fetch my result.
Failing my first semester of my first year of my first degree of my first attempt at making myself proud was heartbreaking.
I remember leaving the office having read the results and I was in utter disbelief.
A tsunami of tears dampned my face. And I say tsunami because my whole body went into a cold and violent tremble.
I cried every night for 5 months but the second day was the worst. I thought I was strong enough to go to work the next day.
I wasn't.
At 10 o'clock in the morning I found myself on the ground in the building bathroom begging God to take my life. I weighed the benefits of being alive and how they would make my mother's life better and also presented why my life was taking up space.
And when I cried myself dry, I lay there. Defenseless and broken. Broken by the fact that my efforts were not enough. I lay there. With no one to call. With no one to scrape me off the floor that I knew was dirty. I wanted nothing but to lay there. And I did until I had to sum up the strength to face my mother, and my aunt, and my brother who looked up to me, and my grandmother who prayed for me endlessly. I had to get up and face the shame that was me. And I did. Physically. Spiritually I am still on that floor. Emotionally I never left the bathroom.
When I forgave myself (or rather let myself breath from these razor blades),8 months later I had left a trail of destruction in my wake. Tarnished friendships, broken hearts, wreckless nights, passionate fights and such... It broke me. I was and still am a nice person. I still go above and beyond for people but its different now. I do it but I cant feel it. Before it was tangible, satisfying. Now it is just done.
I am the broken celestial toy I kept describing in all my unfinished projects....
After 8 months of private self loathing ( 4 of which were lightened due to the penetrating beams of my God given sunlight) I went back to school. I studied my ass off, failed few tests but got back up and tried even harder. Still hating myself and my existence I pushed through but this time with a few cheerleaders.
But here I am.... Still that girl in the bathroom. The one who never left emotionally, the one who died there. Scared that if I didn't make it. I will never leave. Scared that I might stay there physically or at least until they find what's left of me.
I am terrified of her.
By: Clementine Anne Strachan
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