The Me I Used To Be

Most of all, I miss me.

I grieve me.

The me I used to be. The girl I once was. A girl who saw so much light and compassion in the world around her.

The me who could smile and laugh.

The gone me.

Now it seems I only see shades of grayness.

Breathing feels like drowning, but out of water. Looking into a mirror with tears streaming down my face while begging myself to just hold on and be strong. Looking at the reflection of someone who is broken.

The face of someone who doesn't care about anything. Who doesn't care about health. Doesn't care about appearance. Who laughs at jokes like I actually mean it, though it's forced.

Someone who doesn't care about missed meals while holed up in my room because the thought of moving a single muscle feels too hard to manage.

Someone who hasn't showered in over a week but just can't find the will to care.

Who would rather just be alone, not wanting to drain the happiness of those around me, burdening them with my problems.

Feeling the cold absence of feeling. Instead, a hollowed out feeling.

Crying until no tears are left.

Visualizing what dying would be like but actually following through is too hard of a task.

Sleeping long hours because it's the only escape.

Long stares at the ceiling when I am awake, finding temporary peace with no thoughts, no feelings, just a deep numbness.

Lost dreams and vanished self-worth, watching as the rest of the world passes me by and knowing I should get up and do something about it.

But I. Just. Don't. Care.

The words "I'm fine" or "I'm just tired" are instant responses.

In the back of my head, I know this state of mind is dangerous, but I just can't find it in me to do anything about it.

Knowing it's not something I can just snap out of.

The proverbial light at the end of tunnel is nowhere in sight.

Days are now cold and dark. Empty, hopeless, shameful. The type of defeat I can never come back from.

Defeat from always pretending I'm fine. Not being good enough. Smart enough. Or normal enough.

I'm tired. Tired of being a disappointment, of being unlovable, of being a freak. Tired from just existing.

Stupid dreams and ideals that led me to believe the sick lie...that I matter. I don't.

This illness that has nestled its way inside me and made itself a home is a cruel punishment. There are no fevers or rashes, no blood tests to be sent off. Just the slow breakdown of oneself. Like a cancer.

It's insidious, compounding daily, making it impossible to ever see the end.

It's a room in the pits of hell and the door has my name on it.

A prisoner of my own mind. Serving a life sentence.

It's hard to look around me and not see the old me. The before me.

The now me is stuck in time while everyone else moves forward. The clock speeds up and the world keeps spinning without me. That's just the way it goes.

The now me feels like such a failure. Like it doesn't matter if I wear a seat belt or look both ways before crossing the street.

I'm dead anyway. It's only a matter of time before my body catches up with my mind and will finally find peace.

And when peace comes, I hope my last breath is a sigh of relief.

After all, my mind is a hostage to this nasty, unpredictable, and chaotic disease.

And one day, when I'm long gone, I hope that someone, somewhere, picks my soul up off these pages. And they see me. The me I'm supposed to be. The real me.