Stefania sat at her kitchen table, thoughts racing through her head. It was another sleepless night, another night where the chaos in her mind overruled her body’s need for sleep. She’d pulled out her journal thinking maybe getting her thoughts on paper would be what she would need. Next to her was a half empty bottle and glass of whiskey.

She began to write:

I am not the things you think I am. I am not strong. I am not all put together, no matter how it seems on the outside.

It does not matter how often I laugh or smile, I am not happy. There is no emotion; there is only a black hole of emptiness.

I am broken. An empty shell of what I once was.

Let me tell you how it feels. To worry all the time. To feel as if you’re trapped. A constant wall. It stops you in your tracks. One moment I’ll be fine and then next I won’t be. Just like that. That quickly, my entire life changes.

Anything could trigger the feeling. It could be a reminder of better times. Of times when I was happy. It could be cruel words from someone I thought was a friend. It could be nothing at all.

But as quickly as one snaps their fingers, I become engulfed in the storm raging inside my mind.

I forget how to smile, how to laugh. All I know is I’m not okay. And then the panic sets in. My heart beats faster, cold chills start to engulf me. The pain in my head somehow becomes pain in my body. My muscles ache and my limbs become weak and heavy. My feet and hands go numb. Everything is suddenly too bright and too loud. I’ve completely lost control. The world spins even while I’m standing still.

I wish I didn’t care, that it didn’t feel like this. But it does. And it will for a long time. Yet I keep it to myself. My struggles are my own, not the cares of others. Why burden anyone with pointless shit that even I can’t make sense of?

I try to reach out, sometimes. But it feels like I’m sinking, a slow and dreadful kind of sinking, into a pit of darkness. I’m scrambling for a hand to reach out, to pull me out from its depths. But there is no hand. No one to save me.

“You have to save yourself.” A voice in my head says.

But how do you save yourself when you are broken? This body is a coffin and I’m buried alive.

You would never know it of course. You could be standing next to me on the street or in a coffee shop and you would never really know how much it hurts. It’s gotten to the point where I don’t even know who I am anymore. I constantly feel like I’m on the verge of breaking down. I feel like I’m going crazy. If my mind is an ocean, my thoughts are a tsunami. I can’t sleep. I can’t think. I can’t concentrate. I am a mess.

I am broken.

Putting her pencil down, Stefania sat back in her seat. She picked up her glass and spun the liquid around for a few moments before taking a sip. She sat like that, in silence, slowly sipping her drink, until suddenly the glass was empty. She didn’t know how much time had passed.

Picking up her pencil, she went back to writing.

You will never understand the hell I feel inside my own head. I sit and I wonder, can they feel it? Can people feel the brokenness? When they look at me, do they see the cracks? Are they placing bets? When will I finally supernova? Some spontaneous combustion, fragments of my vulnerabilities pirouetting into the atmosphere.

Or maybe, even worse, I wonder, what if nobody even thinks about me at all?

It’s scary what a smile can hold. Funny too. How people have all these thoughts about who I am, what I do, what I’m up to to. How they try to get at me, to have one up on me, to hurt me. They lash out or they pretend to be there for me just to secretly obtain some sort of information from me. If only they knew the truth.

You can’t hurt someone who is already destroyed. You can’t break someone who is already broken. All you do is reinforce what I already know – that I am nothing. Worthless. Disgusting. Filthy. A disappointment. Useless. I am all these things and I am none of them.

There is no blame. I don’t see myself as a victim, despite what people might think. I am as guilty of bringing myself to this place as anyone else. I have made mistakes in my life. I have lashed out. I have hurt people. I have done horrible things and now I suffer the consequences of those things.

Since coming here I have tried to do better. I have tried to help my family. To be good to others. To listen to those above me and follow their rules. But it never seems to be enough. Have you ever cried just because you are you? Have you ever sat and realized that who you are will never be good enough?

I have.

But you can’t tell anyone. It’s not something you can talk about. People have issues of their own, they don’t want to hear about your own brokenness. You’re an attention seeker. You’re overreacting. You’re playing the victim.

Pull yourself together, they say. You’re so blessed, you have nothing to be sad about. Or worse. The “it’ll get better” or “everything is fine” kind of people.

No it’s not fine. I am not fine.

But I will say I’m fine, because that’s what you want to hear. Because that’s what I have to say to reassure you.

They don’t understand that every day of my life it feels like I’m drowning more and more into a deep ocean where no one can hear me crying for help.

Closing her journal, Stefania pushed it away from her, as if pushing the feelings of despair away. She filled her glass, emptying the last of the bottle, but she didn’t move from the table. Not yet.

Instead she let her eyes settle onto the other object she’d laid on the table earlier. The one that could settle everything. The one she could use to finally end all of this. To join her husband.

The weapon seemed to shine, even in the dull light she had on. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to stop swimming. To give into the darkness. To make it all go away.