Delirious

I want to scrawl patterns and create my own personal art across this hated body of mine, yearning constantly for just a minute of blessed silence. Sixty seconds, is that really so much to ask for? For this mind of mine is enough to drive me delirious, and the thoughts that flutter across every second, of every minute, of each hour are enough to drive the most sane, rational person to extremes.

Fighting day after day to avoid the temptation of writing along my arms, battling against the inner demons that no one can see. Faking a smile, oh wouldn't people be so surprised to know the things I think of if they could delve into my mind? A psychologist would have a field day with me, that's for certain.

And every day is a constant silent struggle that no one is aware of, because I've perfected the art of silence. I worry myself enough, why allow others to be concerned too? They wouldn't understand anyway. I've fought these feelings for so long that it's become quite normal...but that doesn't mean it gets any easier. If anything, it only becomes more of a struggle as the days pass by.

Sixteen years and counting, is it really fair that I've had to deal with these secrets for so long? I was just a child, still practically a baby, when I had my innocence snatched away from me in one violent pull. So someone explain to me how this is fair that I still struggle, that I'm still affected and that I can not move on.

Because even I am intelligent enough to know that's when all of this started, that this was when my mind became so jumbled and slowly spiralled out of control. And I've fought for so long, but I'm not sure I can do it anymore.

I guess it boils down to three simple words. Depression...you're winning.