I don’t realise I am clenching my jaw until the door slams. My teeth seethe with pain as I release the tension. I shake with fury, with anger. How dare she blame everything on me? I need to calm down; I write, I breathe. I bet she’s crying now. I bet she’s sitting in the drugstore parking lot, wiping her eyes. I feel the sting of tears. I have learned how to control them and I disassemble them before they break loose. I yearn to cry but rage is seems right, it’s strong. Crying is wrong, it’s weak. I need to cut loose from my emotions and untangle the mess I have become.

My head pounds, I try to change the channel of my thoughts. Like a TV remote that’s dead, I feel unconnected to my thinking. The whispers of memories float atop clouds on my brain. I can’t pinpoint how I view myself in this moment. I’m just a nobody looking on. I try to breathe but with each gasp my chest collapses further. I am a balloon with no room for air. I haven’t cried yet, nor have I felt the urge to again. I have accomplished basically nothing, yet I feel so strong. I have come out emotionless; I have come out on top. I know my words are useless and that I am sounding more like my ex; the person who wanted to rearrange himself into a feeling-less being out of fear. I wonder if he succeeded. I wonder if he also installed a on and off button in himself, like a heartless robot. He was a big influence on my life, heart-clad or not. As I ponder these ideals I realise how disconnected I have become from my world. I don’t let up on my expectations for myself. Even when I sleep I have to have my palms down, if I don’t succeed, I have failed. I wish for peace.

I need to sleep. Sleep offers a refuge to my alienated being. I pray that I can just lie down and never wake up. I shouldn’t be feeling like this, it’s useless. The thought voices are back at in my head. A mix between a thought and two screaming voices, one being negative and one positive, they fight in my head almost all day now. The negative one always prevails. Maybe if I named them they would dissipate or maybe I’d get more attached.

I hear my father come home. He knows I am the only one here so he scurries into his office, his saviour from me. I know that if my mother was here she’d fall into his arms and sob, explaining in great exaggerated detail what I did this time. He’d eat up every word and come find me. He’d tell me what a mistake I was and how I’m so screwed up in the head. Maybe he’s right. The thought-voices pretend I’m not listening and bicker about me. I try to inhale naturally, but I end up sounding pitiful, according to the negative thought-voice. The positive one just sighs and tries to back me up, but I know it’s lying. It likes to lie. By this time I must sound awfully like a lunatic and maybe I am. The doctors try to encourage my positive thought-voice saying that a lot of people describe such things. Those are the same doctors who work in a mental institution. I bet they’ve seen it all. Surprisingly, this thought doesn’t aggravate my anxiety; however, it doesn’t soothe it. I am a lost hope.

My mother walks into the kitchen. Being gone for an hour obviously doesn’t faze her, as she doesn’t utter a word. She plops into her computer chair; I hear it creak. She goes on Facebook a lot for someone who says she has no friends. She comes shuffling up to me again. She tells me that I have done something else wrong. I tell her I don’t feel like talking and I don’t. She rambles on. I ignore her and she evacuates the room like it was on fire.