on words.

there are some words i am afraid to say out loud. 
some words i am too terrified to speak aloud to anyone. 
for fear of judgment. shame. horror. mockery. 

broken. lost. help me. depression. anxiety. fear. mania. therapy. 

all big words. 
all frightening words. 
all attached to things in my life–things i run from, things i hide from, things i hope to leave behind. 

that’s the funny thing about these words. 
depression. anxiety. fear. 
they start so small. a jolt here, a quiver there, a spike of adrenaline every now and then. 
concerns, sure. 
but not debilitating. not in control. 

and then one day, it happens. 
your eyes open, and you realize:
this is not life. this is not living. 
fear driving every move. 
retreating further and further until your heart feels as though it has been carved out of your chest–removed and tossed away like a diseased limb. 
and there you stand. 
open. vulnerable. wounded. 
more often than not, holding the knife. 

it started in anger. anger over dinner. over the complacency used with the word crazy, the blase attitude regarding dysfunction. 

i wanted to scream. 
there i sat, my insides squirming, aching to leap out of me, to throw the carnage raging inside of me onto the floor, in the hope that someone might see, just for a moment, what was going on in my head and in my heart. 
it started in anger. 

and gradually, anger turned to longing. 
not the longing to be heard any more. 
but the longing to be free. 

it’s a strange thing, not being able to trust your own head. 
it’s a strange thing, living in a society using therapy, using needing help as the butt of a joke, a pathetic desire–yet worshiping the wounded, the broken. 
being damaged makes you beautiful, right? 
a tortured soul produces art, right? 

maybe. 
but what no one ever tells you is that screaming to get out of your body, longing to dig yourself out of your own skin, scraping everything away and emerging unhindered by flesh and pain and confusion–it isn’t beautiful. it isn’t sacred. it isn’t something to aspire to. 
it isn’t something to toss around casually. 
it is real, and it is terrifying and it is deadly. 
maybe not directly, or immediately. 
but it will kill you slowly, slowly, until you rot away, trapped inside your own head, locked inside of your terror. 

my name is corrina.
i am scared. i may feel lonely. hopeless. helpless. abandoned. 
i feel these things. 
i also feel joy, feel hope, feel passion. 
i am not in a box. 
i am not a joke. 
i am not a label casually flung about at dinner, something to be goaded, something to illicit a response. 
i am corrina. i am young, and i am broken. 

but i am also strong. 
and in my imperfections, i am humbled, i am challenged. 
and i’m learning. 
little by little, i’m learning how to live again.