Where did life escape me? Because I had that, I had life when I stood panting in the bathroom stall at school freaking out.
I asked myself what happened when I barely finished high school, and most of my days were a drag. When I had to bend over on my way to the store because the anxiety got the best of me and I felt like I had to throw up, just because I had to go to a crowded place and get some milk (or whatever). I asked myself what happened then, when I had to haste out of the classroom in the middle of the teachers tale about chord progressions and G sharp and B flat. I asked myself what happened when most nights I could not sleep and self-harm became a procedure every night, so maybe-maybe I could get some sleep. I asked myself what the fuck happened to my life? because this was not how it had been. How had I ended up like that?
My life in middle school was painful, but I still managed school. I mean it was my way of surviving. Who was I when I didn’t ace every test I did, or when I couldn’t hang out with friends without panicking anymore? So I asked myself what happened. And I could find some of the answers. I saw how I had ended up that way, I saw the sensibility in it. I saw the truth and I understood how it had come to be, and I believed in a way out of it.
Now, two and a half years later, I ask myself the same thing again. What happened? What the fuck happened!? How did I end up with several involuntary hospitalizations within a month? When and where, and how, did it all get so bad I would need stitches several days in a week? When did I stop going outside? What happened when I went from hoping that someday, far in the future it would get better for me, to hoping tomorrow would be the last day I had to breathe? Where did life escape me? Because I had that, I had life when I stood panting in the bathroom stall at school freaking out; I had it when I got my test back barely passing; I had it when counting scars on my arms; I had it while wishing I was dead. But now … What happened?
I search myself for the answer. I try to be as honest as can be, to really dig deep. But I don’t know. I don’t understand what I did wrong. I don’t understand how it is possible to be where I’m at. It happens more often that I get the strangest feeling that we aren’t real. I dissociate and I’m sure people around me are machines, I laugh at the strangest places because this world, this life, cannot possibly be mine, this world cannot possibly be.
I don’t understand at all. Not how I got here, not what happened that made me get here, and not a single bit of what this, here, is.