It’s like staring into a raging black hole and calling it your future.

All the light from today is stolen and sucked deep into its depths.

I’m on the edge. I can feel the force trying to pull me in. Sometimes I wish, no, I pray that I would knock my head against the wall so hard that I knock myself unconscious. Every little swing is harder than the last one and yet I’m still not bleeding. I think that my body is so afraid of bleeding again that the skin has formed a barrier so tough, not even the resonating bangs can tear it.

Even if it is not as effective as I wish it would be, the pain helps. All the blood leaves my brain and tries to heal the severed blood vessels on the surface of my forehead. It hinders my ability to think.

It’s a shame that, at night, when I lie peacefully with nothing to draw the blood away and my mind the only thing still alive, the black hole feels stronger.

Slowly, I can feel myself edging closer and closer. The more I think about me, my life, other people, what I have done, what I cannot do, what I still need to do, the closer I get to the raging storm. It starts in my chest. I can feel the burning, searing sensation of my lungs withering. Oxygen cannot find it’s way anywhere and my head is affected first. It feels as though it is on the roof while my stomach is six feet underground. My hands and feet tremble with sparks of pain, like a million bee stings all at once. As I get closer to the center of the hole, I want to scream but my mouth cannot open. Just before I reach the center and explode with writhing pain, I black out. Now my conscious wishes to leave me. I think that it’s all over, but soon enough, after hours of sweaty, blood-curdling nightmares, the sun kisses my skin and my conscious returns. Once again, it shakily tries to stabilise itself at the edge of this black hole.

No one is going to save me from this endless cycle of torture. In order for them to help, I have to let them know first. I have to release this black hole. I can imagine it. I am sitting, facing an empty face and my voice just seems to be flowing. With every word that escapes, a wisp of the black hole follows. I have the speech memorised, internalised, ready. It comes easily to me because it’s the reality that makes up every fibre of my being. The empty face, they understand. They do something that makes it all better. They make that black hole disappear or at least grab my hand and help me to fight it. Slowly, my lungs repair themselves and my head and stomach return to their places. The tears rolling down my cheeks are made of gold and are coated with relief. I cry into their chest and don’t stop until the black hole drowns. And once the tears evaporate, the remains left behind in crystals of salt are cast away, so far into the sea that I will never fear them again.

This person with an empty face does not exist.

If they did, I would have told them a long time ago. All I need is to release this. Or to share it with someone. But how can someone understand my mind, my thoughts, my emotions and my heart when I cannot understand any of it myself? I have such high expectations of people that I expect them to understand what I am going through. But I am yet to find someone that understands me when I say that I am tired. Instead of hearing “Get some sleep,” or “Yeah, me too,” I want to hear them ask me why I am hiding behind convention. Why I’m hiding my real self. Everyone can probably see the differences, but no one cares enough to go out of their way to figure other people out. Friendships are beautiful when you are willing to share yourself with others. But you cannot be upset when they react differently to what you expect.

I don’t think that I would be able to handle someone telling me that my emotions are invalid.

I don’t think that I could handle someone thinking that my thoughts are shallow.

I think that I would break apart if someone said one wrong word to me about the things that I really care about.

And often that black hole sits in my throat and throws showers from my eyes. I don’t think I could handle not being alone in those moments. Mockery is a possibility. Misplacement of my tears is another.

I just couldn’t handle not being understood.

So I rather hide myself. Imagine if people saw the real me, the me that I actually care about?

There is nothing to stop this raging storm from consuming me. Maybe I should let it. It would take that me and it would destroy it. I won’t have to worry about being misunderstood anymore.


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