Mental Illness: The effects of abuse and the confessions of my internal monologue
CW: Suicide ideation and brief mention of sexual assault
My breath is always cut short, I breathe in, and halfway through I’m stopped from continuing- my lungs half empty- I breathe out with dissatisfaction and a stiff back.
I find myself thinking aloud and envisioning going “back” home, not my home, but a home. The ones I see in movies, not the mansions with the hospital-grade lighting that look unlively and museum-esque untouched, but the small ones that are unbelievably maximalist despite my minimalism and that are so warm an orange tint illuminates the surrounding, yet oddly one is inclined to reach for a blanket- I want warmth.
I’m cold all the time. I remember layering to hide my forever-shaking body- even in summer months. But, as part of a masochistic ritual of some sort, sometimes I only wear tank tops under my coats during winter and leave the air conditioning on amid freezing temperatures. It makes my bones ache and slices my nostrils- I don’t know why I do that.
There are days I am encompassed by my own decay and rot for weeks. I never talk about it because to be Black and (sometimes) dirty feels like fulfilling a racist prophecy I’m not yet ready to decipher. To be Black and not gifted but just unwell feels oxymoronic- as if I should pick one or the other.