It's been a while since the nightmares.
I'd wake with screams on my lips, tears drying on my flushed cheeks. And I'd whisper to myself until I could fall into a restless sleep once more. It wasn't ideal, but it was working. Sort of.
I developed perpetual purple crescents under my eyes, the starkness of reality standing out against my fair skin. I had panic attacks, I couldn't breathe, the air squeezed out of my lungs 'till nothing was real except for the naked truth of fear. I scratched.
I scratched at my wrists, at the backs of my hands, at my neck. I could no longer wear necklaces or bracelets because I felt as though they were choking me, as if they were tighter than the actually were. I became anxious, and fell into a minor depression.
I barely slept, I was incredibly self-conscious, I never smiled anymore. At an all time low, I cut. And then I met this girl. And oh, god.
She bandaged my soon-to-be scars. She didn't mind my insomniac tendancies, helped me with them, even. And then she found out that I was bi.
It had never hurt so much to be punched by someone, to see the look of disgust on their face as they go to wash their hands.
But it I snapped out of it. I got myself treated, my mother cried and then proceeded to ignore me yet again for who knows how long. And I wrote. I was forced to wax poetic about the beauty of God or whatever by my English teacher, and after, I came and I wrote here.
I usually get a decent amount of rest these days, except for the occasional bout of insomnia, I take medication to help, and I act somewhat normal to avoid questions. I am no longer in that downward spiral, falling down a pit to somewhere much less lovely than Wonderland.
I read. I write. I don't have a whole lot of f*****-up nightmares.