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[disturbedthots]

Insomnia.

The “are you still watching?” screen appeared for the third time on the television, only this time they could barely make out the letters as they blurred before their teary eyes. They knew exactly what the letters said, they mocked them. There was nothing special about seeing the sunrise when it served as a reminder of another battle lost to anxiety. 

The long hours they spent away crying over their pathetic and fruitless existence would only take away from their productiveness that day, and that only created more anxiety-induced palpitations. 

Rewatching the same shows they watched in high school reminded them of how much they wanted to have a similar happy-ending cliche story. They dreamed about it. At the time, they thought they had it. 

As another tear adorned their cheeks, they realized how their life couldn’t be more opposite than the typical pastel teenage tropes on the screen. 

Life is just one rejection after the next, not romantically, that didn’t matter. Rejection came in every form through the countless emails and comments from others in spaces they dreamed of occupying. Of conquering. 

They were never good enough to even step foot inside. 

Never was. Never will be. In every aspect of the word. 

The one thing they were passionate about was now another thing they had miserably failed at. 

It had started well and fluid and effortless, then it became hard to transfer from their brain to actual words, trapped behind their tongue. And turned into shit. Just like this writing. 

Never good enough, never was, never will be. 

[disturbedthots]

Shell of me.

I peaked in high school.

No, I wasn’t in the popular crowd. Shit, I wish I would’ve been so then the statement could have good memories behind it. 

I mean creatively. I mean productively. I mean enthusiastically. 

I was constantly fantasizing about about my suicide. The image of me sitting in a warm bath as blood ran down my wrist turning the water crimson repeatedly played in my head like a typical dramatic  movie scene where the camera angle starts zoomed at the wrist, slowly following the blood flow into the water, and then pans out to reveal the full bathroom. 

Even as those thoughts clouded my mind, a part of my brain still  found a way to channel what little of anything else I felt into wonderful works of writing and creativity. I wish I would’ve known how significant they were then. While I fit the mold of a depressed teenager, I still found genuine joy in creating things that unconsciously spoke my struggles for me.

I laugh to myself and shake my head when I remember all the times people said it would get better. Goddamn, were they wrong. To this day, when people say, “Things will get better” and “Everything will be alright” it stirs up some resentment in me. How dare they say that when they don’t know that for sure? Seems like a load of toxic positivity for me, until I remember that though those are empty words for me, they have good intentions. 

Though its funnier when the specific meme of that funny kid comes to my mind. 

This one:

                                              I felt that. Because even though I was already inundated in anxiety and depression, my dumb little brain was still hopeful things would get better after high school. I knew my story wasn’t the one I would read about in all the teen romance books I obsessed over, but I still had some hope.

Years later I’m just a shell of that high school teen. 

I miss them. I wish I had half the creativity they did and I wish I could go back and tell them not to burn all those pages of writing, because those chicken scratches on blood-stained paper carried immense emotion that would remind them just how good they once were. Without even trying. 

Now I struggle to even speak, to even write, to create anything that isn’t for “work.” I lost myself. 

And that meme I laugh so hard about rings true to my very being. It makes me physically laugh and internally cry. Because without even knowing, creative wise, those WERE the best years of my life.