Expression.
ex.pres.sion
- The process of making known one's thoughts or feelings.
Everyone has their form of expression. Everyone has a medium they release all frustration and tension through. I, on the other hand am trying to write back again. I used to be able to type without thinking twice, without pausing, without skipping right to the end. Nevertheless, everything ends up in my drafts, waiting to be published. I found it hard to "express" myself. I turned to different forms of release. I, personally regretted doing that.
"To get rid of a pest, you have to poison it."
I haven't found my poison. I haven't found something to numb my pain. To silence the loudness. It's funny when you think about it. That poison not only drowns your problems but it drowns you. Everyone has a cigarette to puff, Jack to drink, drugs to get lost in to & blades to carve. All to just keep the demons away.
They say, cry, cry it all out. You'll feel much better releasing it out. First, I thought, well okay! This does work! As days passed, I felt it was a need to lay flat on my bed, staring at the top bunk and cry every. single. day. I practically woke up every day to get one thing done. Cry. I woke up almost every morning saying " Here we go again, so lets get it over with ".
I have cried so much to the point I lost faith in God. I pushed my dad away. I threw things that broke. I hid myself in the dark. I ate one meal a day. I kept having nightmares every time I shut my eyes. I begged for this 'thing' inside of me to come out. If I had to vomit it out, I would. If I had to bleed it out, I would.
Everyday I told the Almighty, "I'm tired of crying, I'm tired of this life I live as a living corpse". Unfortunately, I wasn't tired at all. The tears were involuntary. They came out whenever they felt like it. To my disbelief, they came out every day. Some days I would be shocked to have not given into depression. The thought that it still lingered close felt like a dark cloud above my head.
I'm still on my quest to find something I can express all my pain to. Not a person for me to abuse. Not blades that leaves scars. Not cigarettes that kill my lungs. Not drugs that buzz my head. Not Jack who attacks my liver.
- The process of making known one's thoughts or feelings.
Everyone has their form of expression. Everyone has a medium they release all frustration and tension through. I, on the other hand am trying to write back again. I used to be able to type without thinking twice, without pausing, without skipping right to the end. Nevertheless, everything ends up in my drafts, waiting to be published. I found it hard to "express" myself. I turned to different forms of release. I, personally regretted doing that.
"To get rid of a pest, you have to poison it."
I haven't found my poison. I haven't found something to numb my pain. To silence the loudness. It's funny when you think about it. That poison not only drowns your problems but it drowns you. Everyone has a cigarette to puff, Jack to drink, drugs to get lost in to & blades to carve. All to just keep the demons away.
They say, cry, cry it all out. You'll feel much better releasing it out. First, I thought, well okay! This does work! As days passed, I felt it was a need to lay flat on my bed, staring at the top bunk and cry every. single. day. I practically woke up every day to get one thing done. Cry. I woke up almost every morning saying " Here we go again, so lets get it over with ".
I have cried so much to the point I lost faith in God. I pushed my dad away. I threw things that broke. I hid myself in the dark. I ate one meal a day. I kept having nightmares every time I shut my eyes. I begged for this 'thing' inside of me to come out. If I had to vomit it out, I would. If I had to bleed it out, I would.
Everyday I told the Almighty, "I'm tired of crying, I'm tired of this life I live as a living corpse". Unfortunately, I wasn't tired at all. The tears were involuntary. They came out whenever they felt like it. To my disbelief, they came out every day. Some days I would be shocked to have not given into depression. The thought that it still lingered close felt like a dark cloud above my head.
I'm still on my quest to find something I can express all my pain to. Not a person for me to abuse. Not blades that leaves scars. Not cigarettes that kill my lungs. Not drugs that buzz my head. Not Jack who attacks my liver.
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