Do you hear that?

That thudding? That dull roar?

That's the sound of your heart; that roar? The rushing of your blood through your veins.

Your life source.

That involuntary rise and fall of your chest, your lungs.

They work against you, your heart and lungs. Your body as a whole.

No matter how much you want to die, your heavy heart continues to beat, an anvil in your head. It pounds and pounds.

The rate speeding as your fist collides with your thigh, over and over and over until that last sigh of relief escapes your lips.

That dull roar becomes a hiss; a relief as the only pain you can focus on is the stinging of your knuckles and the ache of your arms and legs.

It's a blissful moment. That inner peace you feel, because suddenly your mind isn't the thing that's destroying you.

You aren't your own worst enemy.

You see god knows how many therapists; you're fed god knows how many different pills.

But even then, you're haunted by the idea that you're being drugged to save you from what, yourself?

How is it, that you can become your own worst enemy?

It's humiliating, isn't it?

That the reason you struggle to drag yourself out of bed is what, because your chest feels heavy-your mind's hazy? You just don't feel like it?

How many times can you say, "I'll get better" and actually mean it?

How many times do you have to say it, write it on your arms before you do get better?

That razor looks more tempting day by day-you find that when you walk by tall buildings instead of admiring the architecture you're wondering if it would kill you to jump from there.

Everything's a temptation.

Every laugh and smile you see is a reminder that you're not normal.

They ask a thousand times, "what's bothering you? Why are you sad?"

What are you supposed to say? "I just am."

Hardly acceptable in today's society, so what then: "I'm tired. It's my time of the month. How many feasible excuses can you come up with?"

I've lost count of my own, because there really aren't. The fact of the matter is, I just am. I'm just sad. I'm just numb. I'm just exhausted.

There's no reason. I just am.

I know I'm lucky, yes-I know. I'm blessed. I have a good life; why can't I just be grateful, right?

I am grateful, but nothing can ever push this weight off my chest.

No one can fight your demons for you.

They're yours and only yours.

Don’t tell me, “I’m going to be okay.”

Don’t you dare tell me, “I understand.”

You don’t understand, and you don’t know that it’s going to be okay.

You don’t know if I’ll be alive next month. You don’t know what demons I face and you will never know the pain I’m in.

You’ll never know; no one can.

I am my own worst enemy, and my fate is my own.

It’s out of your hands, and at this point-I’m pretty sure it’s out of mine too.