THE MAN IN THE MIRROR

Every day was a struggle waking up trying to block out the sadness and disappointment of the night before. The never-ending drunken depression that consumed my life. Why am I still alive? I thought I drank enough not to wake up, so I didn’t have to live through another day. I sit in my room alone, hating the person in the room with me. The morning sickness begins; it’s overwhelming and painful. To get it all to stop, I drink until I can somewhat function. I look in the mirror and can’t even recognize the person looking back at me. I resemble my father so much it’s terrifying. I try to eat, but the sight of food is unbearable. My body is a mess and shutting down with every passing moment. I guess I’m ok with that. Maybe it will finally give up and say it’s had enough.
I miss my family, but seeing me in this state is heartbreaking and too much for them to handle. I isolate myself hiding from the outside world with the anxiety of the judgmental people waiting for me out there. They don’t realize I feel the same way about myself but even worse. I cry till my tears are exhausted, and the dehydration of my body absorbs them. The voices in my head are scrambling, trying to get their chance to speak. Hoping to convince me to get the rope prepared, knowing that I long for that hanging cure. Surrounded by endless Bottles of sadness scattered around my house. I search and find random half-empties and combine them to make a full self-medicating bottle to take the pain away.
I’m so tired; the process of my everyday life is exhausting. I ignore phone calls to avoid trying to convince people I’m ok. I watch tv, wishing I could function like the people on there that looked so normal. I try to write down my feelings, but my hands are at war with me. I can hardly write down my own name. The tremors intensify with every stroke of the pen. I manage an entire page, but it’s hard to read. My thoughts are all over the place, each one not connecting with the next. They read as little tiny desperate cries for help that will never be heard. I try again to accomplish my goal of drinking my sadness into a never awakening blackout. I’m disappointed again when I awake to the hell I’m still living in. I start the process again, each day worse than the previous one. Still lonely and depressed, hoping for a day when the pain will go away, and I am no longer terrified of the man in the mirror.