If you are experiencing suicidal thoughts, the following post may be triggering. If you need support now, you can call or text the Suicide and Crisis Life Line 988.

My anxiousness has been through the roof today. I could feel it peek it’s head in the morning as I sat in my office. Felt very much on edge. Felt very anxious. Shaking my leg up and down like a crazy excited dog. Couldn’t stop. Could barely notice I was doing it until I noticed I was making an annoying sound with my foot and thought to myself, what the hell is that? Damn, it’s me. Thought to myself, have I had too much caffeine today? Shake my head. No. I know better than to do that now.

Nausea came and went off and on. Thought to myself, I really should remember to eat with my pills. Except for that I had already eaten a breakfast bar so that couldn’t be it.

Just this complete feeling of loss of control. Completely feeling as if I may suddenly jump out of my own skin in a terrifying fit of panic and fright. And feeling pissed off at the same time. Wanting to scream at the top of my lungs for everyone to just FUCK off!

But no one was there. I’m in my office alone. Hadn’t spoken to anyone in probably 3-4 hours. Praying the entire morning that no one comes into my office and speaks to me. How would I reply? Talk to someone? How does that work exactly? I don’t know how to do that. Suddenly feeling like a child out on the playground at recess with no one to play with. Wanting so badly to play , but so scared for anyone to come and ask me.

No one can tell.

The meds work. The meds succeed in helping me hide it. The meds help me be able to “deal”, or “handle” it. The meds help me to fake it until I make it. But I never make it. It’s still there. Like this devil of an angel shadow that lurks behind me non stop. Just waiting for the right time to come to the fore front and say, “Peek a Boo Bitch. Let’s take a trip to Hell, shall we?” So, I go. I don’t take the angels hand. I most certainly do not go willingly. Though it’s enticingly evil. I don’t so much put up a fight anymore.

I know when it’s there and it’s time for that trip into Hell. I can feel it when I’m in my office and so badly need to go to the restroom. But making that tip down the hallway seems like the longest scariest stroll down an endless highway. Sad, isn’t it? What if someone sees me? Or worse, what if someone stops to speak to me? NO. NO. I can’t do that today. I’ll pee during my lunch break. Today I am invisible with this devil of an angel in my own burning Hell.

I can feel it when I’m short with my daughter. No, she didn’t get all of the spelling words correct and I can tell she isn’t really trying her best. Yes, she’s been glued to that tablet ever since she walked in the front door. But, that doesn’t mean I should be short with her. Cause her pain. Drag her into my Hell so that I’m no longer there alone. Especially when I can tell and I can see right through her 8 year old heart and mind and know she’s battling her own emotional demons in that moment. They are only 8 year old emotions, but like her Mama’s, they are BIG.

I feel it when my husband comes up behind me and puts his arm around me and I feel my skin crawl and all I want to do is squirm and make him go away. It’s not him. Not even a little bit. It’s this Hell I’m in.

I know it’s there when the only emotion I feel is uncontrollable anger. I don’t blow up or yell like I used to in this Hell. Not as much anyway. Nope, the meds help me keep that from happening. But the feelings are there. The feeling of hate. Hate for everything. Every noise. Every little sound. Every. Little. Every. That’s that Hell.

I feel the darkness. I FEEL it all. It may be in the back. It’s like the people in the back of the audience at a play or movie. The people the performer is trying to ignore and forget their existence. They’re just there to make fun, kill time, and maybe piss someone off with their talking. That’s my Hell. Hiding in the back of the line. With every breath I take, every step I take, it takes two more.

I know I will get past it. Eventually. But there’s never a moment in my life when I don’t think, I am unworthy. I am not meant for this world. Never was. I’m meant for another time or universe. I am meant for the Hell I’ve created. That’s where I belong. That’s what I feel constantly. There are no words that would do this feeling justice.

I’m coming up on a year sober. What does that even mean? Nothing really. It means for over half of that year I’ve been on yet another pill that takes away my alcohol cravings. One that even makes me sick when I drink non alcoholic beer. What the actual Fuck, right? Can I catch no fucking break?

Weak

It means that 9 times out of 10 I’ve chosen not to drink due to fear of pissing off those around me.

Weak

It means that given more than a few days by myself, I’d be more than tempted to head straight for that bottle.

Weak

Yet, I celebrate. I feel the need to be with friends and family and to come together as if I’ve succeeded and been strong. As if I’ve accomplished something.

Weak

All I keep thinking about is, it’s been one year since I admitted myself into that hospital.

Weak

It’s been one year since I tried to end it. It’s been one year since I gave up and welcomed Hell and demons with open arms. Said, “Please for the love of all that is holy and real, TAKE ME!”

One year doesn’t feel long to me. It feels like yesterday. Because I never truly left that place. I just learned to live in it.

Sometimes I feel I want to go back to that hospital. That’s where I belonged. That’s where my thoughts, my Hell, felt normal. People understood me there. It was “ok” to live in Hell. Everyone else was there too. The outside world didn’t exist. It was just us in that hospital. People got it. I had nothing to do every day. No one to convince that I was OK and “normal”.

This is me. This is the Hell I’ve created. Where I’m meant to burn for eternity. A constant battle within myself.

You may not see it.

I feel it.

-Sincerely Brutal

If you need support now, you can call or text the Suicide and Crisis Life Line 988.