I have always imagined my break down. The neurons inside my head exploding, making me clench my fist just before I start throwing punches at everyone.
The sky would be a little pale that day. The birds in the trees would go silent, and the wind would hold its breath to see me let go of this anger I have always crushed between my teeth. I wouldn’t care about the teenager sitting beside me, her earphones plugged in but the tuned-up volume resonating the music in my ears. And I would snap. I would draw the earphones and shout at her to leave me alone. She would look at me with pity as tears would roll down my eyes. I would shrug my hands and she would start walking away. My hands would be on my face as I cry my heart out.
And I have imagined it happening on the night of a Christmas where all my relatives would be gathered around the table. They would keep on and on selling me lies about how wonderful they are doing in their life and I would just sit there until one of the relatives would utter: “You need to do something about your life.” I imagine meeting his eyes. I would give into the frustration. I imagine to turn the table upside down, screaming and telling them to go to hell. Tell them how they have surrounded themselves with lies. How pain needs to be dealt with and not supposed to run away from.
But as I write this, I realize my breakdown was very quiet.
It was a sad night, and with an empty heart, I scrolled through the list of people online. I stood up and walked towards the restroom.
I looked into the mirror and it hit me: I am so lonely. The demon on my shoulder climbed into my ears and screamed that there is no one behind me. I stood there, retired, not meeting the eyes of my reflection.
I finally met my eyes and felt my hands shivering against the basin, my eyes longing for tears to come out, but I just saw my lips turning into a contour of a cry for help.
I turned the tap off and returned to rest on my bed