Demons and Oh How they Grow

The sun shines through the slits of my window like a dark pastel dream. Enticing me with its warm embrace and encouraging bravado that pulls hundreds of people up every morning. Drones and drones of walking bodies getting ready for their day. Lines and lines of cars slide down the roads one after the other. With the rest of the ants moving along in their own journey of the day. Fueling their dreary tasks with caffeine. What beautiful attention that shone on everyone except me. I’m told it’s not only me, that plenty of people feel the same. I can’t seem to find the feeling of empathy or sympathy. I just continue to lay here soaking in my self-pity and surly thoughts. With nothing to land my eyes on I close them hoping to fall asleep. I try to keep doing everything I can to make sure nothing bad happens.

In what false hope there is little by little in the comfort of my bed, swaddled by my blankets. If only my mind could sleep. If only my body would move. Nothing seems to be working out for me right now. Every day it’s a battle, most of which are postponed towards the evening. My greasy hair sticks to my scalp, my sweaty clothes drop towards the floor painfully dragging me down. It all seems pointless. This “phase”, this “hole”, this “demon” I’ve been told I have refuses to leave me alone. It swallows up my day. My life. The me I am without you has been long gone for years. Only showing up to check-in once in a harvest moon. My comforts are like the people you end up pushing away, they hurt when they’re gone and invisible when they’re here. What can be done?

Sometimes, just sometimes, I become a traitor to my own mind. Begging myself to stop. The thoughts floating back and forth. Arguing back and forth an angel and demon use me as their cannon fodder against myself. With one sentence though I’ll come crumbling down like a house of cards. “This isn’t you.” I remind myself who I really am, not this shadow of what I think I am. Tears start to well in my eyes. They drip softly on the pillow leaving salt-filled spots next to my head. The angel and demon on my shoulders will continue to bicker senselessly. As the angel makes strides to a new beginning, the demon continues to whisper believable lies into my ear.

I drift asleep under the spell of the fading adrenaline. With the dried residues of tears, snot, and drool stuck on my face, I wake up with nothing but a dry mouth and swollen eyes. Hours had passed under the guise of rest only to be revealed as an unnecessary pause in my day. The two enemies that normally reside next to my ears were nowhere to be found. With the sudden change of pace from earlier, I decided to start my day.

The battle has been eerily silent. Never have I had to work so hard to make an ounce of progress. If only it was this easy, if only I could brush such weight from my mind by simply waking up. With every action, the stress of crumbling becomes too much and I almost boil over. The irony and tragic condition I've set up for myself is less than ideal. If it's true that others deal with all of this, does that make me weak? Either way, let me progress.

With a bowl of cereal, a glass of water, sitting on the couch feels less burdensome, and watching T.V. seems less saddening. I'll strive for better, I have to.