I feel . . . minimally.
I cannot cry from my internal pain. It’s so minimal, it may not even be considered pain.
I have relapsed in self-harm, in the OCD . . . and yet, I can barely feel.
I want to cry like the sky is dark and crashing into the light and crying now. I may go outside to just be in the rain. To try and feel. I feel that I cannot feel . . . not adequately.
I am losing myself into blankness. Into nothingness. The depression is so far at bay, it’s laughable. The OCD mingles with the whispers in my mind… its whispers. And still, I can barely feel.
Last night was difficult to fall asleep, to settle my wings into unburdened dreams. Eventually I managed, a variety of sound videos later to help cool my mind, as the OCD was reeling, deciding it’d be a merry time to obsess over obsessing.
I woke up from my slumber multiple times, coming close even to publishing words filled with aches and pains. But fear gripped me, minimally, that it may be too much fixation on the OCD, that it may be me giving further into its powers and that I was just another pawn yet again in its plans… So I found a new sound to listen to and fell back to slumber.
Because of this pattern, I am heavily exhausted. I feel a dense brush of evergreens in my mind, behind my solemn eyes, that cannot feel internally.
Why oh why must the tears be so hard to find?
I require a simple release. So tear I did into my innocent flesh. A blank space contorted into streaks of red lines, skin tearing apart from its clutches of home into the air of the unknown. A sting, a resolute crisp of my vision, alert and awake and present I felt – the rain came down and I could hear the singular droplets, the air became lighter, feelings evoked – and the short term relief dissipated . . . forgotten into scars and soon to be uncovered regret.
I fear these mere words aid only in the OCD lurking in my mind.
With emotion I say, it is not enough. I feel incapable of taking my own life, which is good, yet hellish. Yet this pain is so minimal, how could I forget? I know not where the journey goes from here. I am merely spent.
I feel as though I have acted unlike myself. This blankness, this foggy light, makes me forget who I am and why I am sat here forming words together and together, stringing them like lights over the branches.
I do not know. I cannot know.
This place is not for healing. It is for breaking. And breaking I shall be.