Does it ever feel you’re in a glass house, you’re talking, talking and talking, sometimes screaming and the person on the other side is smiling and having a completely different, convoluted conversation of what you’re trying to hard to convey? It happens all the time, screaming to be heard and the other person is in a conversation about you on their own. What I do, I just let my mind take over for a bit, hollering inside and recite the alphabet backwards as many times as it takes for both side to be quiet so I can l find that dull hum of subconsciousness.
You wonder why I try? I ask myself that questions every time when I end up in pain, hurt and 3 hours later still fighting to bring equilibrium back. It hurts every time and I keep throwing myself against those glass walls, face pressed, hands striking to no avail. It’s lonely in here, lonely and painful. The relief for the pain is to find empathy and this is such a complex situation it seems only doctors and medical staff can see through what others can’t. I have exactly one, maybe 2 people outside of the realm of medicine that can understand.
Feeling disheartened. Analogy. Like having a stroke and not being able to speak and knowing you have a pain, infection, bleed that’s beyond bear. Everyone standing around you has an opinion how you feel and what should be done but they’re treating the wrong place and hurting you more and the whole time you’re screaming in your head to please listen, you don’t understand, that’s not the cause. But no one stops, they keep going, making assumptions and treatments for your mute self, and you can wiggle and squirm and that’s taken as affirmation that they are correct, meanwhile the real infection site is bubbling and festering getting passed aside from what everyone thinks is best for you, and then the pat you, stroke you, smile, treat you like an idiot and leave because you should be fine now, they fixed you. Be grateful.
So, do you suffer silently? This is the discussion point, just smile and say all is great, all is good, no problems because speaking out hurts more than seeking understanding. Then go home and cry and nurse your wounds waiting for the next treatment session. Is this a way to live? Or is this just the way you live with mental illness? In my own empty, listening to the voices inside out and those blooms of glass that push through the skin with fresh buds of blood, fertilized by all the “well-intentioned” shovel of words.