The Eye is the Window to the Soul

It was cloudy, and raining. It was the kind of day that could sap the strength out of me, the will to live, and leave me drained before I even woke up and looked up outside. It was one of those days. After dragging myself out of bed at 4PM, the familiar, sinking, heavy, feeling of an unknown weight pressing down on my chest and heart began to surface. My thoughts and brain felt sluggish, drained of willpower. Unable to decide on something to eat, I decided to not eat anything. Maybe I should reach out to someone. Nah. No one wants to be bummed out un

necessarily. I know how draining it can be to support someone. What would I even say? There’s nothing wrong in particular. I just feel terrible. As the day progresses, my brain begins to churn, but not in the direction I’d like. “Why do I feel terrible? There must be a reason. I must have done something to deserve this. There’s plenty of reasons that I should feel terrible- I haven’t been enough, I haven’t done enough, I treated others badly, I treated myself badly, I should have done this, I should have done that, this is why I’m unwanted. I’m broken, and no one wants something broken. Not even me.”

It’s 7PM. I still hadn’t ate anything all day. Silently suffering until breaking point. My heart is starting to pound a bit faster. I feel the urge to violently release all this frustration, anger, and more at myself. I lock myself in my bathroom. Looking down at my wrists- the scars of my self-inflicted violence shine palely back at me. It’s getting worse- building, and building, and building, until I actually want to throw myself out a window, under a train, in frotn of a bus, anything to make it stop. The hatred, the anger, the frustration, the rage. All self-directed, because who else could I blame for my unhappiness but myself? Who else could help me out of here but myself?

I bend over, knees hitting the cold, tiled, floor. My eyes screw shut, and I curl down into a fetal position, moaning, trying desperately to stop from screaming. Until I do.

I scream until my voice breaks, my sobs turn into gasps for air, and the back of my throat begins to taste of blood. I scream until I can scream no more, letting out a long, howling, wail of pain and grief to an empty house that can’t hear me. My eyes redden, swell, and are blinded with tears. My hands ball into fists, pounding my head, the locked bathroom door, the sterile white wall, the cold linoleum floor. I curse myself, wondering why I’m alive, why I deserve such pain, and how weak I am for not being stronger. There are three new holes in the wall. My knuckles are swelling, newly bruised and bloodied. I am overwhelmed with a fresh but familiar sense of guilt. I look down at my wrists, the moon-white and darkened purple of new and old scars. I run my fingers across them, bumpy and raised. At least I didn’t do that. Still curled into a fetal position, kowtowing with my forehead pressed against the ground, it takes all my energy to put one hand down, push myself up, and sit up.

I stare at the puddles of tears, sweat, snot, and blood on the floor. It’s not pretty. I can feel my heart rate beginning to slow though. Slumped against the wall, eyes closed, I wrap my arms around my knees. I’m ashamed. But I’m alive.

Although I strive to live openly and truthfully online, I still conceal my worst moments like this. I still feel ashamed about them. It’s shocking, uncomfortable, and begs the question- “Why am I putting this stuff up? TMI.”

I am posting this, for the 1000 other social media posts that show me living my best life. That I appear to be happy in, because I am! Those posts are not a lie. However, it would be disingenuous to friends and myself who assume all is well with me, or that I am doing great when I really am not sometimes. It’s rare, and I can manage by myself 99% of the time, but it’s hard. I just wanted to share this, because I don’t want to suffer silently, and alone.