Drowning

By Sameeha Badar

Tick.Tock.

The steady rhythm of the clock lulls me into quiet paralysis while the shackles on my wrists tighten, pulling me further into the warmth of my bed. My eyes threaten to give out, caught in a constant battle against the allure of sleep. I don't want to sleep. I don't want to feel the last bits of reality fall through my fingers. Reality keeps me here, keeps me sane. 

But the fatigue wins, my eyes close, and mayhem ensues. I am transported to a world where I'm not a forgotten planet spinning endlessly around brighter suns, a world where I stand at the centre of the orbit. 

Yet I hate the attention. The irony of it all taunts me. I wither under the spotlight I so dearly crave. I suffocate under the weight of my own thoughts and feelings. 

My mind has a mind of its own. It punishes me, reveals the parts of myself I so desperately avoid, forces me to face the insanity of my own making. 

Walking on unsteady feet, I try to navigate this familiarly unfamiliar place. 

All around me, I see the many destinations my mind has concocted for a desperate attempt to organise this chaos. 

Every corner in this dystopia holds a different facet of my overflowing brain. 

The library of misplaced feelings, where tragedies overcrowd every shelf. The dumpster of fading memories, with moments of a dying childhood I can never return to. The forgotten post box, filled to the brim with thoughts I wish I'd sent out of this place before they were smothered and snuffed out like a withering flame. 

Prison may be a better way to describe where I stand. A prison holding on to all the life I can have and turning it bleak and dull as a prison does. Lost in thought, quite literally, I misstep, and suddenly I'm falling. 

Falling and falling 

Till I plummet into the ocean of self-doubt. 

Instantly, I am submerged in cold water that invades every inch of my body, freezing me from the inside out. I hate that I can't move, I hate that I don't have the instincts to, I hate that I'm incapable of protecting myself, I hate that I've gotten myself into this situation, I hate that I'm unreliable, I hate that… 

I find myself completely engulfed in these grey waters of self-hatred. Just me floating by my lonesome, loathing every inch of my body that is covered by this cursed ocean. Not a sign of life to break me from this unforgiving trance. 

Suddenly, through the depths, a murky figure materialises. Shining like a glimmer of hope amongst this desolate void. But I know better. Nothing shiny survives in a place like this. 

Crazed eyes, hair sticking out, a mouth sewn shut and a frail, almost lifeless-looking frame. 

I see a version of myself I have never seen before,

I stare at the distraught self-portrait floating in front of me, unable to believe my eyes. The self-image I have spent years carefully curating, slowly cracks.  

She is everything and nothing like me at the same time. Her crazed eyes reflect every feeling I have buried, yet I do not look like her, not even a little bit. A contradiction that keeps my mind and body at war.  

Her hands claw at her throat, but no sound escapes her clamped mouth. A feeling that feels all too familiar.

I lay still and helpless as I watch her struggling to stay afloat. 

Slowly, weights pull her down. Weights that I hadn't noticed till now. Weights that circle her feet like a vice. Weights that resemble every word that has come out of my uncertain mouth when I regard myself in the mirror.

The dark abyss pulls her in further and further until all that is left is the vacant space surrounding me.

Silence, complete and utter silence, that pays tribute to the unending emptiness inside of me. 

Tring-Tring 

The ring of the alarm clock breaks the routine of my nightly self-destruction. The rivulet of sweat gliding down my skin is the first sign of movement my body exhibits. Slowly, the heaviness behind my eyes dissipates, and the shackles around my wrist loosen till the paralysis completely flees my body. 

Almost mechanically, I get off the bed, and my feet drag me to the object of my vanity like it's first nature. 

I don't care for water to remedy my parched throat, nor do I recall the steps it takes to get there, because all I care about is the reflection staring back at me through the mirror. I breathe a sigh of relief because at first glance, I look like myself. Me, in all my underwhelming glory.  

But the second time around, as my eyes glaze over the length of my body, zoning in on the contours of my face, something changes. 

The crazed look in my eyes returns. 

And I'm drowning again.

By Sameeha Badar