Sometimes, I have these eerie moments of clarity, like I'm seeing and feeling the world around me for the first time in forever. The air that fills my lungs, the pain in my movement, the shift in my organs. My surroundings become clear in all their senses. The birds and wind are crisper, touch is more vivid, sights seem more real and in-depth. It feels like waking from a long dream into reality—the first gasp of air after a slow drowning.
Thoughts begin to race. When did I zone out? How long has it been? I let my eyes wash over my frame, my face, the messy curls, the dark circles that piled up beneath my eyes. Where have I been? How long has my skin felt unfamiliar, my eyes cloudy and uncertain? My brain pores over memories, years, looking for answers to my millions of questions. Did I become like this all at once? Or was it slow and gradual—something I didn't quite notice at first glance, but that grew prominent over time?
I feel numb in these moments, as if my emotions can't catch up with what I'm experiencing. Although my senses take in everything at maximum capacity, my thoughts are either lagging behind or running too fast to catch.
Paranoia sets in deeply. Fear creeps into my spine section by section, seeping into my bones to settle. Every bad moment replays over and over; guilt and shame cause my body to tremble violently. The air feels sharp in my lungs and my heart pangs every few seconds with anxiety. How did I get here? Who am I? The questions deepen, lingering at the edges of the light.
I feel the coldness in my chest, the absence of something that hasn't rested there in some time—a hearth without a fire. My mind lingers on that question in particular, but with no answer in sight.
Then, small flashes appear like blinding light, illuminating answers I don't want to see. Every need pushed aside for another, every time I silenced myself out of shame or fear, every dream washed away for the peace and sake of those I care for. Emptiness. A jar that poured endlessly but never refilled—stained and sour. No ache of rage follows, nothing but numbness in its wake. The bitterness I know should exist is extinguished before ever growing into justice or boundaries.
Another sharp breath, and my spine stiffens. The answers come slowly, painfully, but with no shards to be found. Then it lands on one truth that explains this moment of clarity: every day has been artificial. Drinking to forget my needs and anger, smoking to drown my senses, eating and purging to feel something. Prescriptions to keep me docile, easy to handle, emotionless. Year after year, pound after pound, another artificial day after another until these small moments of clarity.
These terrifying small moments.
Then, acceptance—the heavy kind—and the realization that there is absolutely nothing you can do for yourself. That this moment will pass once again, and any hope to regain a sense of self has long since been lost.
I cradle myself, pressing deeply into my body. I watch my eyes in the mirror and feel my heart beat in my chest, slowly.
I let my fingers run over fabrics and surfaces, noting every last detail like I'll never be back here again. I trace my features, letting sorrow guide each touch—like a mother memorizing her infant's face, knowing she will blink and that child will be grown. A few tears silently shiver down my cheek, from just one eye.
I tenderly exhale. I watch my eyes slowly lose light, my sense of smell fade, the shift in my organs cease. My spine relaxes and conforms back to its slouched shape, caving in my chest and lungs. My breathing slows, each breath shallow and numb. The noise in the background fades to static and an eerie, high-pitched wail. My smile fades back into its original stone face, void of reaction or emotion.
My last sense, touch, protests at first, struggling to feel the same things I felt moments before. My toes and fingers begin to tingle as the sensation slowly pulls away. My skin feels like a wrapper, unable to feel what's outside the cellophane. I watch the last of life leave and disappear along with the questions and fear.
I take another hit—breathing in deeply, holding, then exhaling. A cloud of white smoke drifts into the air, and everything about that terrifying clarity is gone, like I was never there to begin with.