I have clinical depression and am improperly medicated.

I lost my pills.

So, the quiet, humming noise in my mind is becoming a monster.

A shrieking, banshee-like monster.

It whispers quietly during conversations “That was a stupid thing to say.” “You really are an idiot, aren’t you?” “You don’t deserve to breathe the air these good, normal people do.”

I imagine the voice to be a version of me. A pretty, smooth-skinned, slim version of me. A voice like velvet, not gravel from years of screaming for my house, my father.

At night, she sings me to sleep with promises that I’ll one day die, never see the sun again, that everyone I know hates me and that my not killing myself is proof of my weakness.

Now, everyone has a secret fear. The one that even you don’t know about until it slaps you.

Mine is stupidity making me rot alone, left to die with noone but the increasing number of scars on my arms to join me.

All my life, I’ve been called ‘bright’ and told I have been ‘wasting my potential’.

My older brother means the world to me. He helped me through the physical abuse my mother put us through. He tells me that things get better, he calms me when I call him sobbing and screaming. He is my savior.

So when I fail a test, I fail him. When I break down and do something stupid, I practically hurt him myself. I can’t stand being the one to do that.

So I can’t be stupid. I can’t be wrong. I can’t do that to my brother.

That voice, she tells me that I am an idiot, that I can’t do anything.

If anything goes wrong, it’s always my fault. Always.

I can no longer question how I know this. This knowledge is a constant.

The mumbles that fill my mind quiet only when a greater pain is present.

Like a physical hurt.

Like a cut.

And I’m scared. I’m really, really scared. I remember as a child, I was scared of anything I didn’t know. I’ve always heard her. The voice has changed. The words have changed, becoming more dramatic.

Instead of “You’re dumb.”, its “You always ruin everything, you moron.”

But I knew the voice. I climed into my shell and stayed firmly placed, listening to the poison filling my thoughts. Surely all kids’ little imaginary friends told them where they messed up. I never questioned it.

I never cried much as a child. It didn’t do anything to calm my nerves, only gave me a headache and had me sleepy. Strangely, it seems I’m the only person alive who feels worse after a good cry.

According to my family.

My voice doesn’t disturb me while I write, and poetry is my favorite medium, but as soon as I look it over, I see nothing but shit. No one I know, or no, no one alive would ever like this…. This page of scribbles and lines.

I hope no one thinks I’m looking for pity. I’m not. I just wanted to say something where I won’t be recognized and placed in the inpatient ward for the mentally unstable forcefully. Again.

So, please…… Don’t feel bad for me. I only wanted to say something. Don’t worry about me.