I am a prisoner of my own mind

I don’t remember the last time I was happy.

I mean happiness in its purest form – like the magical laughter of a child, or the twinkle in someone’s eyes as they walk down the street with their lover – their person. Someone they can proudly call “mine” – I miss that feeling.

Certain things do make me happy – like when I’m having a good (acceptable) hair day, or someone on the street compliments me. Or when it starts raining and everyone rushes for cover, but I stand in the middle of it all and get soaked.

Those are rare, fleeting moments of happiness – like a shooting star. Enough to bring a smile to my face, but nearly not enough to free me from my thoughts. They are gone, almost as soon as they arrive.

I am a prisoner of my own mind – home to my insecurities, fears and ghosts from the past.

I’ve been sleeping too much these days. I wake up feeling drained and stale, trying to recover from a lengthy night of painful dreams, enough to make me shiver. I try to look for excuses to get out of bed, but I struggle to find those, too.

I glance in the mirror and see an exhausted failure of a person. Someone who is slowly losing the will to live, but trying to hang on to something. Everything seems to be slipping from my fingers, like burning sand.

I have given birth to several new scars, littered on my skin. It pains me to look at them and see what I’ve become – have I gone back to square one?

I’ve been told that I’m strong and I can “get through” this. But “this,” this feeling of emptiness, of darkness and of a constant, painless pain – is nothing but a never-ending tunnel, and I’m struggling to find a way out.


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