(cw: general mental illness, vague discussion of eating disorders/body image)

I’m in an on-again-off-again relationship with myself.

When we’re off, my brain is occupied by another angrier version of me. She’s cruel; unspeakably so. I have to beg her to stop, to hold back and yield her sword of ugly truths. To clarify, I’m not talking about a disorder or hallucination, but rather a manifestation I’ve created to separate myself from this vile voice in my head. I drown her out with my headphones. Podcasts, music, and YouTube speak over her, stealing my attention away from her taunts and jives. At night, she’s a particularly evil breed of tinnitus, ringing in my ears and keeping me awake until the early hours of the morning. We sound something like this:

ME: You’re going to hell. 

ME: We don’t believe in hell.

ME: Doesn’t matter. You’re pathetic, you know that?

And it goes on. She talks about my worries, my failures, and mostly my body. People help. My dog helps. But she comes back, creeping into my mind, a whisper in my ears. When it’s really bad, she’s a chorus. The sopranos lead the melody, acting as whaling sirens. The basses are low, constant reminders of my failures. My head makes so much noise that the outside world goes mute. I feel guilty when I think about who I am when we’re off. I’m on edge and temperamental. I don’t reach out and don’t answer those who do. It’s too tiring; it’s too much. I’m sorry.

When we’re on, it’s quiet. I go for more walks, and I play the guitar. My AirPods get less use. In reality, I don’t notice we’re on; I feel like Passenger — only miss the sun when it starts to snow and all that. 

We’re in an off-again phase right now, which I can’t say that I’m a fan of. I was sick, which didn’t help. Three and a half business days bed-bound is enough to forget about the world outside of your four walls. Then it’s just her and me. She goes:

ME: You should look in the mirror.

ME: We’re sick. Let me sleep. I want to get better.

ME: Do you?

ME: Fuck you.

And then I cave. I push through the dizziness to stumble to my mirror to stare at a stranger before I crawl back into my bed. 

I don’t write this for pity. I don’t want you to hold me, or to tell me that it will be alright. I think I write this more to comprehend what I feel and what I hear. Reading this, it all feels so melodramatic. Who am I wailing at? Why am I wailing in the first place? Is this a vie for attention? Why can’t I stop complaining? Be quiet, I want to say, What are you talking about? (Or maybe that’s her again. I can’t tell). 

Why am I writing this again? I think I should stop.