I need to draw to calm my anxiety, but I’m shaking so badly I can’t hold a pencil steady.
I need to stop shaking because it’s freaking people out, but I’m so agitated I can’t stop.
I need to look after myself, but a worthless person places all others’ needs above their own.
I need to stop avoiding sleep, but I don’t want to sleep when sleep just means a brief and peaceful interlude after which I will wake up and have to do this all over again.
I need to starve myself in order to be perfect, but I keep failing because of this thing called “being a human who needs energy to survive”.
I need to exercise more to lose weight, but the weight of existence is exhausting me.
I need to relieve some tension by taking it out on my body, but I’m trying to self harm less.
I need to get out of bed in order to face the day, but I just can’t bring myself to.
I need to focus on the present, but I’m struggling to let go of the past.
Need and can’t and won’t and shouldn’t and couldn’t and would and could and should and wish and want don’t get me anywhere. Those words are a path paved with shallow possibility, that leaves me in a darker place than before I left the dusky shore. Each time I cross from the darkness to a brighter horizon, my standards are reset, until I find myself in the blackest place yet. Why must it come down to self harm, and suicidal gestures, and the extremes of my mental illnesses before I am noticed, before I am heard. Why must there be such a divide between the existence I live, and the one that you see. You think I’m better – I hear you whisper it to the person next to you – and you even congratulate me face to face, but you don’t see the tears soaking into my carpet, as I clench a knife in my fist, desperately trying to resist the overwhelming urge to punish myself, the pain I so desperately deserve, and the release I so desperately desire. You ignore the clenched fists and tense shoulders as if they are normal, and for me, they have become normal. But they are not. Normality is based on a timed spectrum, but a decade of suffering doesn’t make mental illness less real.
I need to get better, but I also need to cling to this pain and anguish and despair, because it’s the only part of me that’s left intact. It’s the only part of me that I know anymore. When I fail to meet all my other needs, there’s no point giving myself a chance if it means being let down again. So here I rest, clinging to the past, worried over a future I may not ever reach, yet trapped in the present thoughts and dark demons patrolling my mind. It doesn’t matter what I need. It doesn’t matter what you think I need.
It just. doesn’t. matter.