Maybe I’m the reason

Guest Author: Duru

This content contains explicit and sensitive information that may not be suitable for all ages.

Heavy breathing, shaking body, bloodshot eyes, and nails digging into a scalp.

The exhaustion makes it worse, but it leads to the inability to sleep as well. Isn’t that funny? It’s always a cruel cycle, a hamster wheel that will never end. Feeling in my fingers go numb, and so does my face. The fears I think about I try to replace with good thoughts and happy memories. That should work, right? Right??

Maybe I went wrong somewhere, maybe it’s all my fault. Maybe I didn’t try hard enough, or maybe I am to blame for all the mishaps. Maybe I’m the reason behind the suffering of others, maybe I’m the reason behind the cracks in the roads, or the paint chipping off the wall, the bark falling off the trees, the cold harsh winter breeze. Maybe it’s all because of me?

No, it can’t be. But it feels like it.

Maybe it’s all because of me?

I’ve been told things aren’t my fault, and that some situations I cannot control. But each time I hear about another death of a young person who ended their life, I can’t help but start blaming myself. Maybe one time I didn’t smile at them in the hall, or maybe the internet filled them with hurt, and because of my consumption of the media, I only made it worse. I wouldn’t know. We can never truly know.

So why do I feel like it’s my fault? My responsibility? Why do I assume each problem in the world is caused by me? By my choices? By my actions? Maybe I should give it up so I can stop blaming myself and see if I truly am the reason behind all of this. But I know I can’t, I shouldn’t. But that doesn’t stop my mind from running through the woods, getting more and more lost each moment it decides to keep going. What if my existence is the reason behind the cruelty everyone experiences?

Why did I have to be wired like this?

I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to yell like this anymore, I don’t want to shake like this anymore, I don’t want to feel the burning in my eyes from the night prior, I don’t want to feel the cold fingertips that eventually feel frozen, I don’t want to feel the millions of needles jabbing at my face when it goes numb. Is this even worth it? Is this at all worth the suffering and exhaustion?

Do I truly have friends like people say I do? Do my parents genuinely care? Does anyone think of me in a good light or is it out of pity they talk to me? Maybe it’s because my mother and father have to take care of me that they do it. Maybe no one truly cares, maybe I am just a forceful and selfish human being. I can’t understand, or maybe I don’t want to? These pills aren’t working enough, these doctors don’t care, maybe no one does and maybe I’m just trying for nothing. Why? Why do I feel this way? Why did I have to be wired like this?

How disappointed everyone must be in me, how much they must resent the look of even my face, how they hate the sound of my voice that doesn’t understand the term ‘quiet’, or my body which is anything but perfect in the eyes of society. Maybe I can snip all my insecurities away with scissors, like a bandaid being ripped off quickly to avoid the most pain. Or is that even worth my time? Maybe the therapy sessions are a waste to the one listening, maybe I’m just taking up the time and space of people who I don’t wish to hurt.

Maybe I can snip all my insecurities away with scissors.

I feel my nails digging even deeper, while the shaking gets more intense and my ears begin to ring. I feel every part of my body going numb or shivering as if I were sitting in the pure winter snow. I felt my throat swell up with the wanting to hold back tears, and my eyes began to water, twitching every now and then. I felt the warmth of a tear roll down, with others following down. I’m curled in the corner of a room, thinking harder and harder without fail. Each thought worse and louder than the next, but why? What have I done? What did I do for all of this?

Nothing. I am not to blame. I am not to be faulty for all the mishaps that happen within this harsh space around us. I know this, but I can never believe it. My hands let go off the top of my head, looking down at the bloody fingertips and nails of my hands. My eyes now glossed over and my lip quivering. My cheeks are stained with salty tears and my mind is aching.

With a steady breath, I lay down, looking up the ceiling and stare into the white paint until I lose consciousness, getting as much rest as I can achieve until the vicious cycle starts up again tomorrow morning. Maybe someday it’ll stop and I’ll grasp the ability to understand how deserving I truly am. but for now, I am stuck on a ride that won’t shut off, and I have nobody to blame for it.

Not even myself…


Duru’s Mom

I am Duru’s (Guest Author’s) mom. She is only 16 years old. It is hard to see how much pain she is in. She is a great kid. I am so proud of her. Wish these kids could see how much this world needs people like them. Kind, caring human beings.

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