Going (insane)

Part 3 of a 9 part poem.

This is the third part of a poem I began writing while starting medication for the first time, treating depression and anxiety. The first try was not the right fit for me and drove me deeper into the dark. It's not until later on that things began looking up.

The compellation of these nine poems I've titled, Becoming (Me).

***Trigger Warning: Topics brought up in this part of the poem get pretty dark, since I was in a very dark place when writing this. Suicide and self harm are not the answer, and you'll soon see that this is a struggle I overcome throughout the rest of the poem.

---

How can I feel happy when I have no clue what I’m feeling?

I think I’m happy.

But I’m unsatisfied.

I think I’m content.

But I’m disappointed.

I think I’m calm.

But I’m manic.

I don’t freak out. I don’t explode.

I implode.

My head throbs.

My lungs strain.

I forget to breathe.

Forget to eat.

Forget to… relax.

I don’t deserve to.

What the hell am I doing with my life that entitles me to relax?

Nothing.

I’m doing nothing.

I’m not working.

I’m not creating.

I’m lying on my ass trying to find the will to live written on the back of my eye lids.

It’s not there.

It’s not under the blankets.

It’s not on the screen in front of me.

Is it in the knife in my hands?

At the bottom of a pill bottle?

My mind is exploding.

The pressure building. Wanting out.

I could scream, but my throat is raw.

I could cry, but my eyes are dry.

What the hell am I doing?

Why the hell am I doing it?

Maybe I should be committed.

Be watched constantly.

For me, it’s probably necessary.

Look at what’s happening when I am alone.

Look at what I can get away with when no one’s here to stop me.

I miss him.

But sometimes I don’t.

If he never came back maybe that would be my way out.

No one could stop me.

I could be free.

But what if there’s another way to be free.

A way where I don’t have to do... what I really want to do...

But the pain is immense.

The work is relentless.

I have to completely rewrite my code. Rewrite myself.

Will I change too much?

Will I lose myself?

I hope I find myself…

But I’m not sure I can climb this mountain.

I’m not sure I can make it.

Even with help.

There’s a safe haven somewhere up there.

He’s waiting for me.

Reaching down to help me. Like he always is.

But I have to grab his hand.

So far away.

And I have a little hovel down here at the bottom.

A little grave carved out by my nails.

A comfy little spot to hide and sleep.

I like it here.

My head doesn’t hurt here.

I don’t know where I am on the climb.

I feel like inches above the ground.

Miles and miles before me.

I don’t know if this will be worth it.

An end is.

An end is a promise of peace.

An escape from pain.

I want to escape.

I need to escape.

Because I am going insane.

Not knowing which way is up or down.

Who I can trust.

Where I can go.

What I can do.

I’m giving up.

I’ve been giving up.

And it’s left me with nothing.

No footholds.

No air.

Falling.

Waiting for the end.