a doctor’s office but in my mind

trigger warning: needle mention, suicidal thoughts mention, self-harm mention, implied bullying. if you’re going through anything and need to talk to someone about it, find a crisis line in your area here.

you could say without it being too much of a stretch that i have a complex about getting shots. or being touched in any way by anyone i don’t trust. and you could say i’m a little bit fucked up. could say i start panicking the second my therapist tries to book me in with a psychiatrist because maybe that would mean me finally getting a diagnosis on whatever this is. you could say that i don’t like being diagnosed by someone i don’t trust. you could say my stomach is a barbed wire fence, and if getting help means being controlled i’m not sure i want it. you could say i’m damaged, and i wouldn’t even dispute you on it. could say my heart pounds, and i shrug off the thought of being noticed. even though i know i need help. even though i know i need to be noticed, and even though right now i hate myself not everyone is out to get me about this. but they’re chasing me with skipropes, and i fall into the sand, and i’m bleeding on the ground but they don’t care, because they’ll get away with it, because they’ll always get away with it, and i will never get away with it, with it, with it… and you could say that in the brief moments that i want to die it’s not that i hate my life. it’s that i just wish sometimes that i could close my eyes, and sever all the parts of me that ever dared to care about anything on the outside. and sever all the broken pieces, and the swelling of the tides. and cut. it. all. out. and it’s ironic, right? how i can chose to take a kitchen knife to my ankle on purpose, and wait for the voices in my head to stop screaming because in my head it’s just like worthlessworthlessworthless and still be afraid of a needle like this. but i just don’t want to think about it anymore, okay? i just want to close the closet door. and curl up in a blanket. and maybe i’ll be lonely. but at least i’ll be the one in control of it.

control is something that’s really difficult for me. it’s sort of a defense mechanism, i guess. today my therapist and i came up with what my anxiety cycle looks like, and it’s something like this: i feel anxious. i have a panic attack. panic attack leads to feeling confused, feeling confused leads to feeling out of control, feeling out of control leads to lashing out as a way of feeling in control, lashing out leads to guilt, guilt leads to self-harm, and self-harm leads to suicidal thoughts–and the cycle goes on. i’m working on it… but it’s something that’s haunted me most of my life. and when. i wrote more about this in this poem, if you want to read more stuff i’ve written about that.

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