Warzone of the Mind
My head’s a goddamn warzone, a minefield where every step detonates a memory, every breath ignites a flashback. I can’t fucking tell what’s real anymore. The walls of my apartment feel like they’re closing in, suffocating me. I can hear the echoes of screams that aren't even there, and my heart's pounding like it's trying to break free from my chest. Fuck, I can't even breathe right. My hands are shaking, a cold sweat dripping down my back, making my shirt stick to me like a second skin.
The goddamn night terrors, they come for me every time I close my eyes. Like clockwork, I’m ripped out of sleep, choking on fear, drenched in sweat. My bed feels like a battlefield, the sheets a tangled mess from my thrashing. I wake up with my muscles aching, like I’ve been in a fight. And maybe I have, fighting those fucking demons in my head that won’t let me rest. I can't remember the last time I slept for more than an hour without waking up screaming or gasping for air. My whole body’s on edge, a live wire ready to snap.
Just walking outside feels like I’m navigating a goddamn warzone. The crowds, the noise—it’s all too much. Every sound, every unexpected movement sends my heart racing, my brain scrambling to process a threat that isn't there. But my body doesn't know that. It’s stuck in survival mode, always on high alert. The tension in my shoulders, the clenched jaw, the constant feeling of impending doom—it's fucking exhausting. I can't switch it off. It's like a goddamn prison, my own mind holding me hostage. I’m so fucking tired, but I can't stop. Can't let my guard down. Can't breathe easy.
But it’s not just the fear and the flashbacks, oh no, it’s the relentless fucking parade of shame and guilt marching through my brain. Every goddamn day, I’m assaulted by memories of things I’ve done, things I’ve seen, things that haunt me. It's like I'm constantly on trial in my own mind, every decision, every action picked apart and condemned. I'm judge, jury, and executioner, and there’s no appeal, no reprieve. My self-worth is shredded, a carcass picked clean by the vultures of regret and self-loathing.
Then there’s the dissociation, the lovely little escape hatch my mind’s built for itself. It’s like I’m not even in my own body sometimes. I’ll be talking to someone, trying to act normal, and suddenly I’m floating outside myself, watching the whole scene from a distance. My voice sounds like it’s coming from someone else, my movements mechanical and disconnected. It’s like I’m a goddamn puppet, strings pulled by some sadistic puppet master. I can’t trust my own senses, can’t trust my own mind. Nothing feels real, and everything feels wrong.
Social interactions? Forget it. I can’t connect with people. I’m terrified they’ll see through the façade, see the broken mess inside. So I isolate myself, cut off from friends and family. I’m a ghost, drifting through life, avoiding attachments because they’re just another potential source of pain. But the loneliness is a bitch too, gnawing at me, making the void inside even darker. It’s a vicious fucking cycle: I push people away to protect myself, but end up trapped in my own solitary hell.
And the triggers, oh, those fucking triggers. They come out of nowhere, blindsiding me when I least expect it. A scent, a sound, a goddamn color, and suddenly I’m right back in the middle of the chaos. My body reacts before my brain even catches up. Heart pounding, adrenaline surging, hands clenched into fists. I can feel the bile rising in my throat, the world narrowing to a pinpoint of panic. It’s like being yanked through time, dragged back to the worst moments of my life, helpless to stop it. And all I can do is ride it out, try to remember where I am, who I am, and pray that it ends soon.
The physical toll is brutal. I’m exhausted all the time, my body worn out from being in a constant state of alert. My muscles ache, my head throbs, and my stomach churns like I’ve been poisoned. I’m jittery, on edge, unable to relax. My immune system’s shot to hell, and I catch every bug that comes around. The stress is eating me alive, eroding my health bit by bit. But there’s no escape, no relief. Just this endless fucking grind of fear, guilt, and exhaustion.
Therapy helps, but it’s a slow, agonizing process. It’s like peeling off layers of skin to get to the wound underneath, raw and bleeding. Talking about it, facing it, trying to untangle the mess—it’s torture, but it’s the only way forward. Some days I can’t do it. Some days I want to scream, to give up, to let the darkness take over. But then I remember there’s a part of me that still wants to fight, still wants to live. So I keep going, one painful step at a time, through this fucked-up landscape of my mind, hoping that maybe, just maybe, I’ll find some peace on the other side.