What am I fighting for?
Freedom?
Love?
Some beautiful reason
I can carve into stone
and point to when somebody asks
why I kept going?
No.
Right now,
I am fighting for the surface.
That’s it.
I want to break through the water
and feel the violence of air
rush back into my lungs.
I want the wind to hit my face
hard enough that I know
I still have one.
I want cold air.
Rain.
Heat.
Anything.
Something that reaches me.
Something besides pain.
Something besides anxiety
sitting on my chest
like it has paid rent
and plans on staying.
I want to breathe
without having to think about breathing.
I want to feel alive
without having to prove
that I am.
Because some days,
I think about jumping.
Not flying.
Jumping.
There is a difference.
There are moments when disappearing
sounds softer than staying,
when my mind starts telling me
that maybe letting go
would finally make everything
stop screaming.
But pain deceives.
Death doesn’t efface pain.
It moves it.
It takes what is a part of me
and puts pieces of itself
inside every crack left open.
And God,
I know that.
I know.
Still,
sometimes I wish
there were some impossible exchange counter
for human life.
I would walk up,
empty my pockets,
put my name on the table
and say,
Here.
Give this to somebody
who desperately wants another morning.
Give my years
to the person begging for theirs.
Give them my lungs.
My heartbeat.
My unfinished days.
Because they want to live.
And I…
Fuck.
I want to live too.
That is what makes this so problematic.
I want to live.
I just feel like
I am dying.
Deliberately.
Quietly.
From something nobody can see.
There is no blood on the floor.
No bone protruding through skin.
No siren shattering down the street.
Nobody looks at me
and immediately knows
where it hurts.
So, I get up.
I answer questions.
I laugh sometimes.
I work.
I talk.
I exist convincingly enough
that the world assumes
existing must be easy.
Meanwhile,
something inside me
keeps losing oxygen.
And I keep trying.
God, I keep trying.
Sometimes this feels like rehab
for a wound nobody believes is an addiction.
One day clean from the thoughts.
Then another.
Then relapse.
Then guilt.
Then getting back up
with worn knees
and pretending getting back up
doesn’t hurt too.
I tell myself,
I am trying hard,
but not hard enough.
There it is.
That fucking word.
But.
I know what it does.
I know the difference between
“I am hurting, but I am trying”
and
“I am hurting, AND I am trying.”
One sentence erases me.
The other lets both things live.
Pain
and effort.
Fear
and courage.
Dying
and somehow, someway,
still reaching for life.
Such a small word.
And.
Three letters
trying to clasp a human being together.
And sometimes
the line between them
is so thin
I can barely stand on it.
Maybe dying looks different
for everyone.
Maybe some people die
all at once.
And some of us
do it by inches.
A little hope here.
A little sleep there.
A friendship unanswered.
A meal untouched.
A shower skipped.
A joke that used to make you laugh
landing somewhere inside you
and making no sound.
Maybe death can move slowly.
Maybe it can shrink
until you think it has finally gone away,
then swell again
without warning.
A storm behind the ribs.
Pressure.
Pressure.
Pressure.
Until something blows.
Maybe literally.
Maybe not.
Either way,
there is wreckage.
I cannot keep telling myself
I am imprisoned.
Every time I say it,
another wall goes up.
Every time I repeat it,
the room gets smaller.
So maybe I am not imprisoned.
Maybe I am lost.
Lost means there might still be
a direction.
Maybe I am underwater.
Water has a surface.
Maybe I am falling.
Then somewhere,
there must be ground.
Fuck.
Some days I feel like
I am wafting in the wind,
pieces of me everywhere,
trying to catch up
to my own body.
But maybe,
if I catch enough of myself,
I can stand.
Not beautifully.
Not triumphantly.
I don’t need music swelling
behind me.
I don’t need some miraculous version of myself
walking out of the fire untouched.
I just want my feet
under me.
I want to stand
between the lines
of whatever this is.
Between wanting to disappear
and desperately wanting
one more sunrise.
Between drowning in the waves
and being petrified
of leaving the bubble.
Because that bubble feels safe.
Until it doesn’t.
It protects me
AND suffocates me.
And sometimes I swear
that if I break through it,
the air outside will tear the flesh
right off my body.
Like I have been sheltered
from the world for so long
that living outside the bubble
feels like I am sweltering.
But the bubble
only has so much air.
I know that.
Eventually
I have to choose.
Stay inside
and breathe what is left,
or break through.
Even if it hurts.
Even if my skin burns.
Even if my first breath
comes out sounding more like a scream.
I want that breath.
I want the dreadful one.
The desperate one.
The breath that says,
I made it to the surface.
Not healed.
Not stable.
Not fearless.
Just here.
Breathing.
Maybe shaking.
Probably crying.
Maybe pissed off.
Wait… definitely pissed off
that surviving took this much from me.
And one day,
I will stand.
I don’t know when.
I wish I did.
Maybe my knees will shake.
Maybe I will limp.
Maybe I will need someone
beside me.
Maybe standing will only last
ten seconds the first time.
Fine.
Ten seconds counts.
Then eleven.
Then maybe a minute.
And if I fall again,
I want to remember:
falling is not proof
that I was never standing.
So yes.
I will stand one day.
Bruised.
Scared.
Breathing like I just came up
from the bottom of an ocean
nobody else could see.
I will feel the wind hit my face.
And maybe I will close my eyes.
Not because I want to disappear.
Because for once,
I want to feel
every fucking second
of being here.
Alive.
Still broken.
And alive.
God,
I hope that day comes soon.
And until it does,
I will keep reaching
for the surface.
Disclaimer: The content on this website reflects my personal experiences living with OCD, Anxiety, and Borderline Personality Disorder. I am not a mental health professional, and nothing here should be considered medical advice. My writings and poems are shared as personal reflections and should be interpreted through your own experiences and perspective.
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