The beauty within me is only as deep as the mind allows and, upon further inspection, my soul is a cataclysm of blood, manic rage, and lightning splashing across the sky. I can reach my hand out towards you, but my fingers retreat in opposition; I do not want to taint you with my dismal frame. And although these past five years have nevertheless been an improvement, there are still maladies that are to be discussed as they are strewn with flashes of tangled guts, howls of pain, and fear. Inescapable fear, as if the innermost corners of my mind are those are a child cowering deeply in the corner of the room as glass breaks across the hallway. At the mature age of twenty-nine years old, I am still haunted by memories of broken doors, the smell of vodka on his breath, and bruising amid my arms and thighs. I am still afraid.
She had diagnosed me with post-traumatic stress disorder. This came as a surprise, as I was never one to think that I would struggle with such a diagnosis. Perhaps due to the inefficiencies of my previous psychiatrists, the title never occurred; however, it ultimately made sense as I came to terms with the phrase. I experienced emotional flashbacks, and triggers of slamming doors, chaotic male voices, and the jingling of keys as someone enters the house. Although I am not longer in that environment, the mere sound of a male becoming frustrated and the clanging of house keys against the front door still invoke panic in the deepest parts of my chest. Suddenly, the post-traumatic stress disorder diagnosis made sense. And though I am aware that it is common, I had never thought it would be an inherent disorder to my name. There are those more traumatized than I with more valid reasons to be afraid.
You met me at a time in my life when I had approached my inner self at the crossroads of madness and recovery. The transitional period of which I have acknowledged my true trauma yet have hesitantly accepted the name and face of my disorder in pursuit of a higher meaning. And although we have just crossed paths, I view you as a saving grace in my effort to further understand the underpinning of my spirit. One month after we had connected, I already view you as a potential suitor who may guide me in my quest toward salvation.
You, with your glistening brown eyes, soft and wavy hair, and comforting aura as you sat across from me at the restaurant table. A shitty cover band played in the background in the far reaches of the room, yet my eyes and ears were focused on you, solely on you. You, with your insecure smile (you covered your mouth with your hand when you laughed), endearing wit, and independent attitude, had captivated me from the inception of our greeting. We spent the following three hours exchanging wit, laughing heartily at one another’s awkward failures, and sharing spoons of Americanized Italian cuisine. I ordered the meatball platter, and you dove deeply into your plate of chicken parmesan over a bed of linguini.
We shared but one date. However, we talked daily, and I — hesitant to push forward — remained steadfast in the overwhelming fear that you would leave me abandoned. My messages to you were occasionally left unanswered, and only during the times of intoxicated confidence did I have the courage to message you again. Last night was one of those nights: in a drunken stupor, I sent you a silly photograph of my cat nestled in my blankets with my bisexual pride flag in the background with the caption, “Sleepy bisexual loaf.” The message was left unanswered.
It is more than just post-traumatic stress disorder. It is more than the bipolar disorder that my previous psychiatrist begrudgingly diagnosed me with months ago (“I do not like labels,” she said). It is more than the depression and generalized anxiety and panic with which I had been diagnosed in years past. This unrelenting attachment to a suitor whom I barely know, a suitor whose mere presence inspired this writing, is unordinary. I wait for your signal and, upon the ping of your message, my heart flutters side-to-side. There is more to this, I tell myself. The lines between infatuation and mental illness are blurred, and I am left to contemplate the hidden meaning of my obsession.
It is a Tuesday night, and I am drunk on wine and prospective love. These thoughts that plaque me of heart-wrenching screams, shrinking children, and shattered vodka bottles have been translated into an unwavering fear of invalidation. The gloomy aesthetic of shaky hands holding pistols and blood-stained sheets has surpassed my own comprehension and, even with the aid of a therapist, my psyche has yet to rattle off the allure of darkness. My only other fear is that you may discover the unruptured gloom within me and escape.
The beauty within me is only as deep as the mind allows and, upon further inspection, you may have discovered that beauty. Trembling hands are tied into knots, and my mind wanders back to the innocent kiss I placed upon your cheek. There is little that you know of me. And until the day comes when I uncover the veil of secrecy of my past, you will remain coveted, ignorant, blissful. Until that day comes, you will be my guide toward salvation. Until that day comes, you will simply be.
