Writing Non-Fiction posted October 25, 2019

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Journal entry before my first real psychotic breakdown.

Shattering in January

by marinaluv

The author has placed a warning on this post for language.
Entry One: Shattering in January

The start of every year usually carries a sweetness through the air, everyone can taste the optimism, the overall hope for positive changes and fresh starts. After a particularly rough year, it seemed that the people around me were most excited to have a drink and forget, spending the last night of December preparing for a clumsy and drunken night, to feel truly alive for a moment before assesing the reality of another year, and another set of promises. I've spent the start of every year contemplating my own purpose, wondering if If I'll ever feel truly welcome in this world of astonishing uncertainty and extreme judgment. The beginning of this year was especially weighing on me, the elusive and ongoing aching I've always felt was suddenly taking over me entirely. The year prior consisted of losing the same battle with my own, tainted and chemically imbalanced mind, by the time January hit me, I felt it was too late for me to love myself. I was absolutely certain I wanted nothing but nothingness, to leave the world and be forgotten. I took the edge of a rusty blade to my own thigh or lit a cigarette just to kill the quiet fire with my skin. I hadn't thought then, that I was desperately longing to heal, to get better.

On January 2nd, I secretly swallowed an exceptional amount of muscle relaxers and unknown prescriptions from my past misdiagnoses. On January 3rd, I woke up, somehow. Exhausted and completely delusional, but by some means, I still existed. I felt the warmth of my breath grazing over my bottom lip, faster and faster as my pale body registered the cold air, and my heart rate adjusted to the aching anxiety I suddenly felt. I glanced over to see all of the pictures I had displayed in my room, I remembered that I was in my own home, and the loved ones I had been avoiding were sat right above me, up the stairs and to the right. I toyed with new thoughts, new mindsets as I sat in useless silence. I remember spending hours telling my brain what my heart already knew to be true. I was falling apart, and pieces of me were left scattered all over my past, and I couldn't go back. But I could go forward and find the fragments of myself that wanted to taste the sweetness in the air and ignite optimism, the parts of me I never knew existed.

My old methods of healing were no longer effective. I couldn't write poetry, and stepping out onto the soil made me feel as though mother nature was pushing me in this direction I forbade myself from going. I had no energy to smile, and pretending to be okay caused an ineffable resentment towards the ones I admire the most. There was another thing I had to admit to myself, but I wasn't ready. Every single sensation I've hidden from myself was writhing inside of my body and a more honest version of me was persistently clawing her way in. I didn't let up, not at first. I stayed up for days, and after a while, I wasn't feeling or thinking of anything at all. I was floating in blissful nothingness. I basked myself in insincerity until I couldn't even picture myself as a person anymore. Though eventually the forces of nature and the suppressed entity I locked away came together and shoved me to recovery, it was as if I was on autopilot and had no control over myself anymore.

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