My anxiety and depression makes me feel so alone, and sometimes (most of the time) it's hard to breathe because I feel like I'm suffocating. My panic attacks make my face go numb and give me red freckles on my face from blood vessels bursting. My depression shreds at my soul and stabs my heart and makes me feel like I'm buried alive, and everything is black. My anxiety won't let me sleep; it keeps me on edge even when I'm exhausted, and all day long I am agitated in my body, wanting to crawl out of my skin or have someone beat me until all my nerves are dead, just so I can have peace.
I never saw this in my future. It was something other people dealt with, something I didn't understand, something abstract and mental and weird. And now it is real and it is killing me.
Sometimes I feel like I'm a disappointment. I worry what others think of me. I want to justify my behavior to them; I want to prove that this is real. But I can't. I can't convince people of the burden or convey how painful every single day is. I don't need to. I don't need to justify the panic attacks and the wildly terrified creature they make me. I don't need to prove the effect they have on me. I don't need to. I don't need to. I want to, so desperately want to, but I can't. And that makes me feel so alone.
I miss when I could look up to the sky, not just the floor. I miss who I used to be, what seems like a million years ago. I want to be better so badly. I want to control the anxiety and depression. I want to be free from this grave. But all I can do is watch and cry.
I miss the laughter, the joy, the air. I miss the person I am inside, deep down inside. I don't really want bloody freckles or numb teeth. I don't want bloodshot eyes and grip marks on my arms. I don't want to use a box of kleenex every week. I don't want this suffering. I don't want this cross. It's killing me. From the inside. And no one can see it.