My Monsters- Bailey Collins

They’re coming for me. Who are they? My monsters. They come out of the closet while I sleep. Creeping towards me they come, grabbing my limbs and pulling my ponytail back until I wake up screaming in a cold sweat. I talk to myself to break the silence. Am I crazy? Can I be treated? Everyday this week was a struggle to not walk into the hospital. If I were to hurt myself though, can I blame it on those monsters?

“They are my nighttime battle scars,” I could tell the doctor. The nurses would look at me with pity. Hoping nobody sees my anxious ticks when I tell the blatant lie. Do they already know that I've been abusing myself, they never tried to help. The abuse is only within myself though. I can’t take the chance of making scars, they’d see more obviously. My reasons not to go. Daddy would be angry if I told anyone I am going insane. He’d be expected to do something. Or help. An impossible task. I’m already burden enough taking up space at home. 

Those monsters began as my thoughts. Look what they’ve done now. I’m hallucinating those real attacks on my mind. Who can believe a silly little girl? They’re all so normal. Losing control of oneself is simply uncanny to the simple minded. Can I blame them? They haven’t experienced the world like I have. But why do they get to be normal? What is it like? To not want to die for a day. To have control over at least one thing. I don’t want to die. I don’t think so at least. Nobody would care though. I wonder what its like to think or know somebody out there loves you and is willing to help when you’re in need. I’ve never known. How could I expect to have somebody that cares for me. Shame on me for wishing for something I know will never be mine. That needs to be earned and deserved. So i don’t deserve that gift. Interactions frighten me anyway. What if I suddenly told someone the truth. Take off my mask of smiles and be honest. They would surely walk away, because what can they do? I’ll never be able to tell another how I really see the world. Nobody else can see it this way, they wouldn’t be able to live with themselves. Then, it’d be my fault when something happened to their well-being. I’m so used to feeling everyone’s pain as my own.

Everyone is a stranger. Though isn’t that a contradiction? To know so many, but have them all be clueless of the true you, they only know the amazing person I created, the one I wish I could be, and others think I am. They’ll never know the truth behind these big, innocent eyes. Nor do they want to. I’m dying inside, and nobody knows. 

Surviving is becoming too hard. Am I finally getting too tired? That day when I collapse from feeling everyone else’s troubles will be my last. That sounds so inviting though. The finale of my existence. What a relief for those who think they know me.

Are these all my excuses? I’m only trying to take the blame off of me because I know my elder’s judgements are true. I’m nothing. I never will be.