mental health

The breaking point.

My eyes are swollen. I can’t breath. I can’t speak. I try to form sentences, but my throat won’t let the words escape.

The truth was told. My demons were released and now I’m going to pay for that. The men told me not to tell, they told me that I would die if I did. I’m not afraid of death. At this rate between the men, the voices, the fits of raging and uncontrollable sobbing, death would be a much needed vacation. Death would end it all. Death would take away my pain. It would end the burden that is me, from my family. My children would be better off. Who needs a blubbering, hysterical mother? I know I wouldn’t want one.

Don’t try to tell me I’m a good mom, don’t try to tell me that my family loves me. Don’t tell me that living this life is better than it all just ending. Because you are wrong. The men tell me over and over how happier everyone would be. They tell me over and over what a shitty mom I am. They attack me, at my weakest points. And those walls have finally broke.

I’m sobbing. I told my husband everything. I told him about the men, about the voices. About the instant wave of relief that rushes over me when I think I may get into a car accident and just never wake up to live this awful life again. I told. I wasn’t supposed to.

So now I wait for the men to come and make good on their threats. I know the torment is coming and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I can’t turn this off. I can’t stop obsessing about it because it’s the only thing that goes on in my head. I try to read, the voices drown out the words, I try to write, I keep deleting the voices’ words. It’s never ending.

Hold on for a few more days. I go to the dr. Soon. Saturday soon, but that’s not soon enough.

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