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The monsters don't stop screaming until I've stopped screaming


AlphaMoist
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Content warning on this one

 

Part 1 

 

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I’m laying in my bed utterly still. Darkness surrounds me, and to those pressing their ears against my bedroom door, to those peeking inside, they will hear nothing, and they will see nothing.

 

But I can hear everything.

 

I can see everything.

 

I can feel everything.

 

My heart pounds inside my chest, creating a rhythmic metronome to remind myself that I am still alive. It pumps its life giving ichor through my veins, and I can feel this fluid flowing through me just as plainly as I can feel the blankets that cover my body. No, it doesn’t pump. Not right now. My heart bleeds.

 

This horrific leech, my monster’s friend, seemingly sucks my very will from my body, growing heavier and heavier the longer it remains attached. I know it will not let go until it crushes me with its agonizing and growing mass. I cannot move. I cannot speak. I cannot breath. I am trapped within my mind, within my body, and the longer I am trapped, the further away reality strides.

 

My monster stands in the corner of my vision, just barely out of focus, but just enough so I’m constantly reminded of its presence. It stands there, mocking me, laughing at me, hating me. It kneels down low, just so its multicolored lips can gently press ever so close to my ear, and it begins to whisper its sweet, horrible utterances, and I am its only witness. 

 

And with its utterances, come the thoughts.

 

The thoughts, the questions, the answers I come up with, the questions that form from those answers, they all come at me in a barrage, unfiltered. Relentless. I’m powerless to stop them. There’s far too many of them. Every word the monster puts inside my head becomes its own independent thought that generates more questions and more answers and even more questions. I can’t keep up with myself. I begin losing myself in the madness. Before I succumb, however, my monster’s friend chimes in, and it offers me something to focus my ponderance on.

 

Why am I the way I am?

 

It’s so simple to blame the monster for how I act, how I feel, how I behave. Objectively, it is the monster’s fault. But its friend? I can’t blame it for anything. It doesn’t tell me lies, it doesn’t make me do anything I don’t want to do. No, it does something far, far worse.

 

The monster’s friend- the leech, this slug, it has a name. Depression. And Depression shows me the truth. 

 

I am the way I am because I am me. I am the result of all my actions, every word I’ve said, every thought I’ve made, every experience I have lived through, and every decision I have left behind, they all make me, me. I am me because of what I have done, and I have done what I’ve done because I am me. 

 

It tells me I’m a bad person. I ask it what makes a bad person.

 

It tells me that a bad person is someone who hurts people. My father hurt our family when he abandoned us. He is a bad person. My step-father killed two people in a gas station. He is a bad person. I hurt one of my best friends, made the love of my life cry, tore apart my friendships, lost my favorite pastime. I am a bad person.

 

Does it matter at all that I didn’t mean to? Does it matter at all that I didn’t want to hurt anyone? Does it matter at all that I would give anything to make what I did right, does it matter at all that I feel so horrible and sick to my stomach at what I did, does it matter at all that I have sworn to my deity and everyone else there is to swear to that I would make sure my heart would stop beating before I hurt anyone like that ever again?

 

No, the leech tells me. 

 

And I believe it. 

 

In what world could a father who abandons his child be redeemed? In what world could a man who takes two lives and ruins three families be saved? In what world, in what way, could I make the hurt I caused go away? 

 

The slug fills my head with these thoughts, and the monster makes me see them before my very eyes. It makes me hear the crying, it makes me feel the pain, it makes me smell and taste the salt of the tears of those I hurt, and with every emotion, with every sensation comes another thought, another regret, another surge of anguish, and another apology that needs to be given.

 

I’m sorry, I cry out, be it in my mind or from my throat, I can never tell. But I scream the words. I scream the words until my tonsils grow coarse and my head pulses and aches in torment. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry. I’m sorry to anyone I’ve ever hurt, I’m sorry to everyone I’ve ever wronged. To the people I hate I’m sorry I hated you, to the people I’ve bothered I’m sorry I’ve bothered you, I screech these words in any way that I can.

 

I can finally move, I can finally breathe, but I am not free. I crawl into myself, I hug the nearest pillow I can, and I begin to smother myself against its fluff. I don’t deserve to move, I don’t deserve to breathe, and I can never be free. These thoughts, they never leave me. They are always in the back of my mind, the monster just waiting and biding time for the perfect moment to unleash my full unbridled focus onto them.

 

In truth, I never stop thinking about what I’ve done. There is never a moment where the hurt I’ve caused others is not among the hundreds of thoughts running through my mind at any given second. I just tuck them away, far in the back of my skull, so I can function in a way that allows me to hide how I feel.

 

The monster and the leech make me feel everything. 

 

The blood coursing through my veins, the blood bleeding out of my heart, it burns hot like the fires of hell to which I belong. I want to rip it out of my skin, let the fluid rush against my flesh and soak into my sheets. I want to be free from the awful sensation inside of my arteries, I want to hurt myself as much as I’ve hurt everyone else. 

 

The bronchial tubes inside my lungs, I can fill their ends absorb as much oxygen as they can, but they just can’t absorb enough. My lungs, they burn, they’re tight, I can’t breathe, I gasp and I choke but I just can’t breathe. My aveoli pop from the stress, bursting like the balloons they are. I scream and I scream but no sound is emitted, and my face begins to turn blue.

 

My eyes, so dry they are, but they continue to pour their rain against my cheeks. Even my own goddamn tears burn, leaving red blisters against my skin. Everything burns. Everything burns so, so much.

 

It’s what I deserve, Depression tells me.

 

And I believe it. 

 

I’m forced to believe it. I want to believe it. I do not deserve forgiveness. I do not deserve understanding. I deserve to hurt, and I want to make myself hurt as much as I’ve hurt everyone else. But no cut would suffice. No blade could inflict myself with the harm I’ve inflicted onto others. No bullet could satiate my need for pain. No rope can choke me into redemption. My thoughts are all I need, and all I need are my thoughts.

 

I did this to myself, the monster tells me. 

 

And I believe it.

 

The beast spits on me, watching me tremble where I lay. Once again, I’m left with my thoughts. But these are not the monster’s thoughts, and these are not the words of the poisonous slug. These are my own thoughts, the thoughts I want to feel.

 

If I deserve this, why do people still care about me? Why do I get to enjoy the love of my friends and my family? Why has my lover forgiven me? If all these people care for me, love me, if the person I adore about most can forgive me, why can’t I forgive myself? Why can’t I stop hurting from the damage I’ve caused? People make mistakes I am told, I tell myself, I tell others, people can be forgiven. So why can I not forgive myself?

 

I’m left with these questions, and I consider them carefully. The sensation of my blood flowing between my muscles begins to fade, my breathing begins to calm, and I’m left with a headache, pained eyes, and my thoughts. But these thoughts are mine, this time. I’m the one choosing to think them. The emotions are in the back of my mind, but for now, the fog that once surrounded them is clear. 

 

These emotions, they will stay with me throughout my day. The nightmares the monster created using its thoughts, they stay with me throughout my day as well. What do I do with my nightmares? I turn on my laptop, I open a word document, and I start typing. Another nightmare, another new story. Perhaps it will work the same way. Perhaps all I need to get these emotions out of my mind is another story. Another emotion, another story.

 

So, I turn on my laptop. I open a word document. I start typing. I let the thoughts the monster throws at me run wild. I type and I type, the clicking of the keyboard becomes my symphony, the words on the screen become my painting. With every letter, another emotion, with every emotion, another tear, with every tear, my mind becomes clear. I begin smiling at my work, feeling proud of what I’m able to do. When I write, I focus. Clearly. For the first time in years I can focus clearly. Another letter, another letter, another letter. There are no distractions. Time becomes meaningless and I am free to express myself without fear of being a disruption or an annoyance to anyone or anything. 

 

Sentences mean structure; paragraphs mean organization. Two concepts I’ve never before been able to grasp with my ADHD riddled mind, and they’re both right here in front of me. Pride begins to swell, the page count increases, dopamine rushes to my brain, much needed dopamine floods into my brain, desperately needed dopamine fills my brain! I feel normal when I write. I feel happy when I write. My unanswered questions, my thoughts, my emotions, my pain, my torment, my misery, they become my inspiration. They fuel me with purpose. What once crippled me becomes my leverage. It’s a euphoric rush, and when I’m finally done, I read what I’ve crafted, and I read it again. I smile, and I smile some more. I fix the mistakes, fill in the gaps, polish what I can. 

 

I become satisfied. And when I become satisfied, I post what I’ve written. I hope the emotions I’ve laced into my words seep into the people reading them. I hope the people reading these words find a captivating sense of enjoyment when they scroll their mouse wheel to read further. I hope those who need something to relate to will be able to relate to this. I hope I can improve someone’s day. I hope I can make them forget about the outside world. I hope I can make them forget about their troubled lives, if only for a moment. I hope that, through this, through improving the lives of others in everything I try to do from here on out with my writings, with my volunteer work, with my day to day interactions and conversations, maybe I can feel deserving of forgiveness. Maybe I can forgive myself. 

 

Until then, my monster’s friend will return every now and then. The monster will shove me into the deepest pit it can dig, and the leech will thrive off of my dwindling will. Eventually, the leech will leave, and I will climb out of whatever hole I’ve been abandoned in. I will be left with my crowding thoughts and my experiences, and I will use them all to craft another work of art that I can be proud of. I can force the monster into becoming my tool. Maybe one day, I can make it my friend. I’ll post my works of fiction as often as I can, but even this still triggers more thoughts. The thoughts never leave, and of course, they mean that my monster is at work yet again.What even is fiction? If I craft something from my nightmares, from sensations and feelings that I have physically felt and witnessed, is it still fiction? If the emotions are real, is the term fiction still appropriate?

 

When does a work of fiction, loosely based on reality, become nonfiction? When does a work of  nonfiction become a diary? When does a diary become a biography? When does a biography become an admission of guilt? When does an admission of guilt become a suicide letter? 

 

When does a suicide letter become an apology? 

 

When does an apology become acceptance? 

 

When does acceptance become forgiveness?

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