Swallow

Repetition is what makes me feel good.

Patterns, sequences, numbers.

Everything has to be predictable.

I don’t know why and I don’t even want to know, or, at least, that’s what I’m trying to tell myself now.

Something in me wants to fill every type of void, something wants to understand why I even have this obsession; sometimes I just hate this feeling.

The feeling of having to be the best.

Truth is, I always felt torn in two: the controller and the controlled.

It’s exhausting to overthink every decision you make. It’s sad that I always feel like I’m not enough. Not just because I don’t feel like good company to others, but because I don’t feel like enough for myself either.

No one should spend every waking moment second-guessing every action, every single word, or even every thought.

Sometimes, I just want to be able to breathe without the constant need of controlling every breath I take.

What if I take in too much air?

What if that air hurts my lungs?

Maybe that’s what’s stopping me: all the ifs.

Every “if” is another fear added to that long list. A list that’s been upgraded since I said my first word.

Whether it’s fear of myself or fear of everything outside of me, I don’t know.

I don’t know if it’s the fear of judgment or just the fear of getting hurt. Or am I too scared I’m going to say something so utterly evil it will make my mom hate me forever?

Doesn’t matter now: everything must be controlled.

Considered.

Enumerated, even.

Like the number of times I clean my glasses’ lenses.

Like the number of times I poke my thigh with my fingertips when I overthink.

Like the number of cuts on my forearm.

Not deep cuts. They don’t need to hurt, just bleed. They just have to be. They just have to help me count.

And so I exhale.

So relaxing.

I can feel every little red line send a shiver to my hands. I’m shaking, but I’m not scared. Not even a little bit.

I think I like repetition because I like safety.

Numbers are certainty, words are not.

No one will ever tell me 2+2 doesn’t equal four, but everyone has a different definition of love.

Not one single student nowadays will tell their teachers that Pythagoras was wrong, but there will always be at least one hand raised, eager to tell someone how Socrates got everything wrong.

But it’s not just numbers I trust.

I trust myself when I’m alone: when I am, who’s going to tell me I’m wrong?

Now, I can’t be left alone. They think I’m dangerous on my own, so they gave me a friend.

I don’t like my therapist.

I don’t want her to be my friend.

She doesn’t trust numbers; she likes words.

That’s why I like to think I’m smarter than her.

Surely, she doesn’t know what goes on in my head.

Surely, she doesn’t understand.

No, she won’t.

“But I could open up to her,” a faint voice whispers in my head. “She could have answers. Maybe her words aren’t so bad after all. Maybe she doesn’t want to lie to me.” But do I know that?

No, I don’t. That’s what’s stopping me.

Nothing’s certain, nothing to lean on, no reassurance for me.

I really want to step back from these mechanisms. As reliable as they may be, numbers scare me.

I don’t like the power they have over me, I don’t like how much they changed me.

I want to be the carefree me again.

I want to go back to being that always smiling kid I now see in every old photo.

Why does she get to smile when I don’t?

I see the sparks in her eyes and I just can’t help but feel jealous.

God, she makes me so angry.

Now, I look at my pictures and I see a beautiful girl, but one who is so empty on the inside.

Is it that kid’s fault? She wanted to be prettier, not me. She started counting.

Couldn’t she see how pretty she was? Or did she want me to suffer for her? Did she want to be the only one smiling?

Maybe she wasn’t so innocent after all.

Or maybe I’m the bad guy? She’s just a little kid, I shouldn’t be thinking bad about her.

My head hurts, what do I even do now?

How can I make all of this stop?

I should take those pills. They’re safe, right? Medicine is numbers when you really think about it.

So I take them.

They don’t work. God, why don’t they work? Why does it take so long?

So my therapist was lying. Her words betrayed me…but I don’t want to see those numbers again.

Why are the numbers still in my head?

I think I might start to panic again.

So I take another pill.

Over and over again.

Until those numbers disappear.

Now this is my repetition: pill, mouth, water.

Swallow.

But it’s not enough, it’s never enough. My thoughts keep on ruining everything for me.

Fuck it, then.

Cheers.

Now, I can finally feel it. My head’s spinning so fast and I never felt better. I can’t even count anymore.

Does that little girl want me to?

Will she be mad if I don’t start counting?

I bet she is now that I don’t even know where I am.

I can feel your eyes on me, little girl, but I just can’t count anymore.

Please, understand.

I thought repetition was what was keeping me alive, I guess I was wrong all along.

So whose fault is it? Did the numbers slowly kill me, or did they keep me safe? Were they just an excuse to help me manage myself? Were they doing all the work?

Was it that kid’s fault? Is it her fault that all of me is rotten?

Or am I just looking for something else to make me feel safe again?