Content note: This post contains graphic discussions of suicidal ideation, and anxiety.
There are the things we don’t tell each other, the things that skulk inside of us, the monsters that threaten to devour us. They are the things we sometimes cannot even put into words, though we see other people who struggle with them and whisper yes, I know, yes, and reach out our hands to brush them, to confirm that they are real, to know that we are not alone. These are the things that frighten us, that stalk us in the dead of night, that push and pull our bodies when we try to sink into sleep.
These things are not ordered, they cannot be carried; they are at best dragged behind us, where they leave a slithering, slimy trail that is both sticky and glossy in the dull light of reality. We feel the need to brush the trail behind ourselves so no one sees it or steps in it, to leave no trace, to become smaller and smaller and smaller so we cannot be seen.