Trigger warning: depression/suicidal ideation
Medication…
You keep putting me on medication and then we wait a few weeks and I come back and sit here…
I sit in front of you, waiting. My legs tap, my breath feels faint, my hands get clammy…I sit opposite to you…
I tell you they don’t work. I’m not improving. I’m dying from the inside out. They are taking control…
You up the meds.
Up the drugs that I’m taking because I’m going insane. Up the hours we’re talking cuz I’m going insane. Up the times I have to take them because maybe then I won’t go insane.
I’m a nutcase. I’m a psychopath. I’m feeling like the world is ending, and no one is dying. But I’m drowning.
I’m drowning in everyone else’s blood because even though no one is dying, somehow they are all bleeding.
I sit opposite you.
You ask. How are you feeling…
The meds ain’t working.
The books ain’t working.
The therapy sessions that I have ain’t succeeding… I’m drowning…
Maybe there’s only one cure for what I have. Maybe two.
But neither are meds.
You ask how I’m doing and I tell you. They ain’t working. The world’s still spinning. Sound is still muffling. You said they are panic episodes, so why ain’t the meds working? I’m doing my best. I’m doing what I’m told; I’m taking the steps to get to my goal. But nothing. I feel worse.
Drugs… why don’t they work…
Therapy… why doesn’t it work…
Maybe if I wasn’t in an abusive situation, maybe then I’d have a chance…
But instead…
I sit here opposite you…
You ask the same every month and I say the same back…
It’s like we’re making a film.. and I’m the main character that’s killed by the monster…I’m also the monster…
Hey, at least then I’d have someone to blame. At least then I’d understand the torture that I go through every fucking second of every day….
My doctor doesn’t care…
My therapist doesn’t care..
My parents don’t care…
Why do I try…
I sit opposite you and eventually, I know what’s gonna happen… you’re gonna sign me into a nut house and I’ll be trapped…because that’s the easy way out…
Or you’ll put me on a waiting list and say you can’t do anything until we hear from them…we play the waiting game… we wait and wait and wait and then you ask how am I and I tell you again like a broken record…it’s not working.
I’m fed up with saying the same thing, trying the same shit, talking to the same people who couldn’t care less….
So I wear a mask… And I wear that fucking mask proudly because at the end of the day I don’t get a moment to myself to take off the mask without someone kicking and punching me … I feel like they stab me… I’m being stabbed…they’re above me. They’re behind me. They’re around me. I’m being stabbed… help me… I can’t breathe…I’m being stabbed and I’m drowning in my blood…in your blood…I’m drowning and no one can hear me scream because you’d have to be listening….
The demons inside like to come out and play… they play with my life like it’s a fucked up game of Monopoly that never ends well for me…
Every conversation… every beating… every bit of abuse… every person who’s ever hurt me or left me or walked out on me or abandoned me… they play inside my brain so my demons keep me awake….it works….
I stay awake at night because even though my doctor said I need meds to help me sleep, I’m not allowed to accept them because my parents don’t approve of it…
I’m drowning… in the blood…in the medication…in the people around me who take away my oxygen because they tell me I don’t deserve it…. I’m dying…
My mask is breaking…
My oxygen is leaving…
My brain is spiraling…
I’m dying… the world is going dark, and no one care because I’m just a box that you have to tick… my mask is breaking. I can’t hold on much longer…. I’m on the edge of the cliff with no harness, no safety net, no parachute…. I’m at death’s door…I’m at my breaking point…worse than ever before…. but that’s okay…
Because as long as I can be your punching bag, then that’s okay…
Because as long as I take my meds that don’t fucking work, then that’s okay…
As long as I spend my time talking to a therapist that says “yeah” more than give advice, then that’s okay…
Your paychecks are safe…
Your boxes are ticked…
Your jobs are complete…
But I’m dying…I’m suffocating from a lack of oxygen and drowning on the blood and you don’t see me because I’m too far under…..
Goodbye…I’m dead…
Hey! Their name is Jax Alexander and they are a 21-year-old from England. They have a goal to reach the hearts of others just from their poetry alone so that they can show everyone that no one is alone. They use poetry as a way to understand their own emotions as they have ASD, so sometimes it’s difficult, but this helps.
Featured image by Fernando @cferdophotography on Unsplash
