Please, just let me go.

Usually I flip out of depression pretty quickly - that's the "beauty" of borderline personality disorder as opposed to it's sister cousin bipolar. I switch between depression and mania within days rather than weeks. While it's frustrating and I'd never wish it on anyone, it's always nice knowing I can climb up from this home of depression; I know it won't be forever.

So why won't it go away this this time?


I rub the silk of my skin: that crease in between my hips and belly, and muse. I don't want to be depressed. My fingers find the mole on my hip that sticks up just a little bit past my body. I can't stand it. It's an imperfection that's not attributed to anything good.

It's nothing.

I'm nothing.

I shake my head - un-brushed curls fall into my eyes but I don't bother moving them. Why can't I escape this? Clawing my way out is never easy, it's always a battle, but I manage it. I've hit the three week mark and my mind shows zero signs of cooperation.

Why? It's not like it normally is. I can't answer the door, I can't go outside, I can't drive my car, I can't do anything without this overwhelming feeling of anxiety straining against my chest. My heart actually hurts. I can't even wrap my brain around how much I want to hang on my husband when normally I can't stand to be touched. 

Speaking of...

I lean back just an inch so I can feel his side against me and relax a fraction but he notices and rolls over wrapping his arm around my stomach, pulling me in flat to his chest. My heart catches and for a second I can't breathe - absolutely not in a good way. My lungs fill with so much air I'm drowning. My arms are shaking so badly I can't manage to push him off of me even though I'm trying as hard as I think I can. 

Panic has completely and utterly liquefied my brain. 

I'm pretty sure I'm motionless underneath his arm and against his chest - terror left me with nothing. Tears are falling in rivers down my cheeks and pooling on the mattress underneath me but I can't manage a single sound. Nothing. My mind is on auto; memories and futures running before my eyelids like silent film I can't stop. I keep closing my eyes and shaking my head, trying to ground myself in the reality of where I am but where I am is stuck and imprisoned and drowning and nothing is taking it away. 

So I lay here realizing exactly why I'm stuck in this hole of depression, unable to claw my way out, trapped inside a prison of my own comfort. My body begins shaking and I'm breathing so heavy and quick I barely finish one before I start another. I never really understood the term gasping for air until now.

"I know, ok, I know! It was my fault. It shouldn't be a big deal but it is, it just fucking is!"

My screaming snaps him awake - scares him really - and he tightens his grip which terrifies me. No longer in anything close to control I I push against him with everything; my feet, my hands. I slap at his arms and beg him to let me go. 

Please, just let me go.

He relents. 

Once free I can actually feel my body lightening. My pulse begins to slow and even though I'm still rubbing the tips of my thumbs and fingers together anxiously my chest has stopped pounding so hard. My breathing returns to normal as I sit on the edge of the bed; it finally makes sense. 

"Roze, what are you talking about?"

"I was raped 9 years ago and it was my fault. Why won't it go away?"

My voice catches and once again I'm sobbing - only this time I fall into his chest face first and relax into him when his arms wrap around my back. He rests his chin against my forehead and pulls a blanket over us both while I snuggle deep into his side and try to catch my tears before they fall. 

"Because you've finally admitted it." 

Panic On The Other Side.

My husband has no idea that I'm lying behind him crying - none. He has headphones on so he can easily hear his team speak online and I always have a fan running right next to me. Still, I bury my face into the thick blanket bunched up under my arms to conceal any sound I might possibly make because I don't want him to know.

When did a game become more important than myself?

Tears sting my eyes and scratch at my throat like nails. It feels like tiny humans live inside me and the only way they can escape the hell that is my body is by digging their fingernails into my throat and climbing; yet they keep falling and scraping as they go. Punishment for failing I suppose.

I can hear him speak which means his mic is active so I try to control my breathing enough that it won't get picked up. It shouldn't either way. After all, it's a professional mic. He bought it for me almost a year ago and I've still never used it because I'm too much of a coward to try recording myself. A sob escapes my clenched lips so I stuff the blankets over my face again struggling to calm down.

Don't panic. I can't panic. I won't panic.

I will not destroy his game.

The blanket becomes too hot so I push it away and stare mindlessly at my arm while tears fall slowly down my cheeks making rivers and pathways that get diverted. I can taste them on the corners of my lips and it disgusts me. I feel pathetic and weak.I want so badly to cut myself that I can feel the scissors beneath my fingers: I can see my skin splitting and blood slowly welling up from the edges. It's a temptation I've been resisting for months. I shake my head and repeat "no" over and over and over to myself like a mantra, like that'll keep me from running into the other room and grabbing them from on top of the mirror and slashing them across my wrist.


I am not important. 

I'm trying so desperately to stop any flashbacks from completely taking me over that I'm shaking. The blanket is wet from my tears and sticking to my face, my breath is so hot it's suffocating, and panic starts to grip my soul anyway. It's like these leeching fingers hold onto my insides and peel away parts of me until I just can't fight anymore, until there's nothing but raw and empty emotion left. I'm nothing but this husk of instinct and currently it's screaming at me to run. 

So I do. 

With zero hesitation I throw the blanket off, barely choke back a sob, and escape to the bathroom down the hall. I slam the door shut. Spinning the knob so the air kicks on and muffles any noise I simultaneously twist the lock and double check it so he can't come in just in case he noticed my extremely hasty retreat. I turn the light on for a second but catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. In disgust I quickly slam the switch back down so that I'm swallowed in darkness.

I collapse against the door. 

My recently dislocated knee doesn't allow me to drop to them so I'm left standing with my face pressed against the wood feeling the grains rub into my forehead as I repetitively move back and forth while tears stream into my mouth. My hands are pressed into the door while waves of memories fuck me. I can't turn on the light, I just can't. But I can feel hands touching me and shoving into me. I can feel people watching me. Shame. Disgust. Hatred. 

There's a ball of weakness and pain that's living inside my ribs trying to break them to get out but I shove closer against the door and cry harder - convincing myself I don't need to cut. I can do this without it. I can do this without him. My breathing picks up. It's too much. It's all too much and I'm pushing further into the door to get away from nothing while the wood begins to hurt my face. I'm hyperventilating now. In and out. In and out so fast It's not dark in this room anymore and I'm barely crying. 

I'm leaning against the door because I can't stand; my legs are too weak. I'm too weak. I'm disgusting and weak and worthless. Hands. Hands again. I recoil. I pull my shoulder up so fast it slams into the door hard enough to bruise and my breathing catches. 

When did his game become more important than my life? 

Why am I in this bathroom screaming into my head and trying desperately not to make a sound because I'm too terrified that I'll disturb him? I sob around all the breaths that are making me nauseous and struggle to stop. This is on me. This is me. This is my fault. This is my panic. This is my attack. This is ME. I hold my breath until I can't anymore while my hands shake so hard that I can't keep them still on the door then I hold it again. 

I keep holding my breath until I can finally breathe normally, until the tears have dried against my face, and my hands have stilled on the bathroom door. I want to be a strong woman who can handle anything life and my brain throws at me but it seems that I just can't. 

I can't stop a panic attack, I can't stop an anxiety spiral or PTSD trigger. I can't make myself stop having borderline personality disorder or loathing myself. I just have to weather it and come out on the other side. 

Definition: Me.

I catch a glimpse in the mirror when I walk past and cringe - sigh. I pull my shirt down trying to cover my stomach, tug on my underwear so they cover my belly as much as possible; as if that'll make it disappear and with it every single insecurity that lives inside my skin.

I don't know, maybe. 

I twist to the side, then left - stumble over a toy that's careening across the hardwood and into my ankles - before finally resigning myself to the fact that no matter how much I contort my fucking body in front of this useless (smudged) mirror I'm never going to actually look attractive.  

Before I really think about it I take a picture; selfie culture right? In my head It's going to come out looking amazing: great lighting even though there's not a single light in my living room, no stretch marks even though I've had 4 children, my fat won't be visible because angles obviously, and I'm just going to look fucking beautiful because pictures always look better than mirrors. 

Until they don't. 

Until it doesn't.

Until I'm staring at this reflection of who I am unable to breathe past the pain and "reality".

The first thing I notice are scars: straight lines across the side of my stomach.

Self-inflicted bullshit.

I wish I could carve them off or tattoo over them so I never have to look at them. When I do it's like my chest has been cut open and fingers are prying my ribs apart piece by piece just to poke at my heart until I can't breathe.

And the stretch marks, so many stretch marks across this giant stomach that carried 4 children. Is that an excuse? How dare I make a fucking excuse! Careful, remember to breathe. In and out right?  Every time I see them my chest gets so tight I can't exhale and my skin crawls until I have to move just to keep still... 

I stare at this stupid picture for minutes while it blurs underneath my scrutiny and the tears I'm holding back with so much force my throat is raw. 

I just cave.

I crumble.

I give up.

I preach self love to every single person I run across. I beat it into my children so hard I'm pretty sure I'm raising egomaniacs. So why can't I even like myself? For just one tiny second.

I should look at this picture and see strength not weakness. Those scars are a fucking victory - a reminder that I survived more than I should have. My stretch marks are life. They are literally fucking life so how can I judge them? 

I'm standing in this picture taking care of my kids and my husband even though I'm on day 9 of a migraine that's making my face numb.

I can't feel parts of my legs and back and stomach because of my spina bifida surgery and two c sections but I'm standing. 

My hips still pop out of place and make me fall randomly from carrying so many children at once in so quick succession but I fucking mother. 

My thyroid cycles back and forth to the point of such physical exhaustion that I'm literally dragging my legs praying I make it to my bed before I crash yet I am still up when I hear them call.

Even the smallest of touches hurts me but my kids use my body like a fucking jungle gym and I take it with cringed smile because they laugh.

None of that shows up in this picture because this picture doesn't define me.

I fucking define me.

So here it is; a completely unfiltered and unedited version of me. And, in reality, it's pretty damned bad ass.