The Battlefield

Not to be dramatic, but I am on the edge. I didn’t say this is the worst (yet), but it’s definitely haunting me.

For the longest time, I’ve always been on the battlefield. Battling my own mind, my sanity, my will to live.

This past week has been the hardest. I am relapsing. The trigger? Too many things at once. I can’t even tell which ones cut the deepest.

My anxiety is rising. Suddenly, a gripping fear becomes my reality. I can’t think straight. My heart is beating in chaos. My head hurts. Every worst scenario I’ve ever imagined is now floating to the surface.

I take days off without explanation. For the first time, I ignored my boss’s text. I haven’t replied to anyone, paralyzed by a shortness of breath I can’t explain.

Days pass. I only lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, wishing the sky would fall.

My boss called anyway, just to check in. I broke into tears. My voice trembled. My hands shook.
He asked if I was okay. I said, “A little.” I lied, of course.

He helped me a bit with work.

I stopped showering. Stopped eating. Stopped drinking. Stopped living.

I’m terrified of staying awake at night because reality feels unbearable.

I try to socialize—replying to a few Threads. But the thoughts return, darker and sharper. So I drop my phone again.

This is my reality. The life of a mentally ill person with no caregiver, no one to lean on. The life I’ve carried for 32 years.

Happy birthday to me.