by J.N Chase
Laying on my back staring at the ceiling, watching the center continuously fold into itself. The weight of my body is amplified by the dark cold hands that strap me down, pulling me into the floor. Glancing to the window I can see a blade of light from the post by the dumpsters, the only light that provides any hope of the sunrise to come.
The early morning is the most troubling part of the day, it calls me to join the community of function yet, forces me to stay in my comatose prison. With each waking moment I can feel the hands grasp tighter and slither up my chest to strangle me at the neck. There are some days where I wish that God had blessed me with being stillborn. When the gravity of the world is grown by the ever increasing anxieties, it seems as if I will be completely crushed.
The late nights can become even worse. Just as my physical world descends into darkness, as does my mind. The skeletons in the closet move themselves to my desk chair. Staring me in the face. Watching me. Etching their image into my eyes, so when I close them they are still there. They are always there. I do not sleep. I do not rest. I just lay there in a state of passive waking.
Those who are supposed to take care of me in my times of need, turn their eye blind to the very present issues. Those who do try to take care of me, carry more of my burdens than they need, causing them to become over encumbered emotionally and soon collapsed because of my infantile, selfish, lack of self care. Those who I am supposed to care for lose my presence, allowing for their own anxieties to boil, spilling up and over the pan into the fires.
I do not want to be punished for caring for my friends. I do not want to be punished for trying to live my life on my own. I do not want to be punished for trying to breathe.
I do not own myself because it has control over me. I am possessed by it. It possesses me, just as much as I posses it. And I am scared.
I am scared.
I Am Scared
J. N. Chase is an eccentric individual who is fueled by unreasonable amounts of tea. He cannot decide if he writes too much or too little in his "free" time.