Manic Panic
Deaths Embrace
- Jan 5, 2025
- 737
It's like I'm trapped inside a collapsing building, but no one can see it.
Everyone walks through the world like nothing's wrong, but for me ...inside, everything is screaming.
I see things that aren't there. Hear voices that don't exist.
But to me, they do. They do exist.
They're louder than my own thoughts. Sometimes they're all I can hear.
They whisper lies in familiar voices ...people I trusted, people I loved.
They twist my memories, make me doubt everything I think I know.
The shadows on the wall start to move when I'm not looking, and the silence in a room turns into static, like the air itself is judging me.
I look out windows and feel watched. I sit in rooms and feel followed.
I try to explain it, and people smile too gentle ...like I'm fragile, or broken, or worse… like I'm lying.
They don't understand what it's like to feel hunted by your own brain.
To be gaslit by your own fucking mind.
It's not just scary.
It's exhausting.
Every second is a battle I didn't sign up for.
I question everything as if that sound was real, if that look was a threat, if that message was coded, if that laugh was about me.
Even when I'm alone, I'm not safe.
Because when there's no one around, they show up.
The voices.
The ones that taunt. The ones that scream. The ones that tell me I'm disgusting. That I'm evil. That I'm already dead and just don't know it yet.
That I should end it. That I deserve to end it. That there's no point in fighting when I always end up back in this same pit.
And then the loneliness kicks in.
Not just being alone but the kind of loneliness that makes the room feel cold and endless. The room twist and turns...
and where time doesn't move. Where you stare at a wall and forget how long you've been there.
Where your own heartbeat sounds like a countdown.
I try.
Gods, I try.
I journal, I listen to music, I go outside, I write lyrics, I reach out, I try to sleep.
But the thoughts don't stop.
And when the pressure gets too much, I reach for the things I know are bad...
But at least they're predictable.
The razor is honest. It stings but makes me smile ...
The high is silent and makes everything finally stay still....
The burn doesn't gaslight me....
Even if it hurt it's my pain, and that means I'm still in control of something. They don't judge me for being me ...
Even if just for a second I feel human.
I know how pathetic that sounds.
I know how self-destructive this is.
But when your reality feels like a haunted house and your brain is the monster inside it, you'll take any way out.
Even if it's not a healthy one.
Even if it's just a few minutes of nothingness.
Even if it means hurting the body I'm already detached from.
People think it's all about wanting to die.
But sometimes, it's not.
Sometimes I just want the noise to shut up.
Sometimes I want to scream back, "I'M NOT WHO YOU SAY I AM!"
Sometimes I want to prove the voices wrong....but they've been here longer than any friend I've ever had.
They're more consistent than anyone I've ever trusted.
And that makes them feel realer than anything else.
So I sit here again.
Fighting. Failing. Fighting again.
Caught in this loop of chaos
Hurting myself to feel.
Taking things to forget.
Getting better seems impossible
But I also want to disappear.
I want to scream until my throat shreds.
I want someone to see what's going on inside and not look away.
To hold me as I collapse into myself over and over and over and over
But most people can't handle it.
They don't want to know how dark it really gets.
They like the internets version of mental illness.....the one with clean tears and recovery arcs.
Not this.
Not hallucinations. Not paranoia. Not bleeding in the dark and pretending it was nothing.
This is my reality.
A battlefield in my skull.
A ghost in every mirror.
A drug for every demon.
And a thousand cuts I never talk about.
Because no one really wants to know.
No one ever wants to know what goes on between my eyes.
Everyone walks through the world like nothing's wrong, but for me ...inside, everything is screaming.
I see things that aren't there. Hear voices that don't exist.
But to me, they do. They do exist.
They're louder than my own thoughts. Sometimes they're all I can hear.
They whisper lies in familiar voices ...people I trusted, people I loved.
They twist my memories, make me doubt everything I think I know.
The shadows on the wall start to move when I'm not looking, and the silence in a room turns into static, like the air itself is judging me.
I look out windows and feel watched. I sit in rooms and feel followed.
I try to explain it, and people smile too gentle ...like I'm fragile, or broken, or worse… like I'm lying.
They don't understand what it's like to feel hunted by your own brain.
To be gaslit by your own fucking mind.
It's not just scary.
It's exhausting.
Every second is a battle I didn't sign up for.
I question everything as if that sound was real, if that look was a threat, if that message was coded, if that laugh was about me.
Even when I'm alone, I'm not safe.
Because when there's no one around, they show up.
The voices.
The ones that taunt. The ones that scream. The ones that tell me I'm disgusting. That I'm evil. That I'm already dead and just don't know it yet.
That I should end it. That I deserve to end it. That there's no point in fighting when I always end up back in this same pit.
And then the loneliness kicks in.
Not just being alone but the kind of loneliness that makes the room feel cold and endless. The room twist and turns...
and where time doesn't move. Where you stare at a wall and forget how long you've been there.
Where your own heartbeat sounds like a countdown.
I try.
Gods, I try.
I journal, I listen to music, I go outside, I write lyrics, I reach out, I try to sleep.
But the thoughts don't stop.
And when the pressure gets too much, I reach for the things I know are bad...
But at least they're predictable.
The razor is honest. It stings but makes me smile ...
The high is silent and makes everything finally stay still....
The burn doesn't gaslight me....
Even if it hurt it's my pain, and that means I'm still in control of something. They don't judge me for being me ...
Even if just for a second I feel human.
I know how pathetic that sounds.
I know how self-destructive this is.
But when your reality feels like a haunted house and your brain is the monster inside it, you'll take any way out.
Even if it's not a healthy one.
Even if it's just a few minutes of nothingness.
Even if it means hurting the body I'm already detached from.
People think it's all about wanting to die.
But sometimes, it's not.
Sometimes I just want the noise to shut up.
Sometimes I want to scream back, "I'M NOT WHO YOU SAY I AM!"
Sometimes I want to prove the voices wrong....but they've been here longer than any friend I've ever had.
They're more consistent than anyone I've ever trusted.
And that makes them feel realer than anything else.
So I sit here again.
Fighting. Failing. Fighting again.
Caught in this loop of chaos
Hurting myself to feel.
Taking things to forget.
Getting better seems impossible
But I also want to disappear.
I want to scream until my throat shreds.
I want someone to see what's going on inside and not look away.
To hold me as I collapse into myself over and over and over and over
But most people can't handle it.
They don't want to know how dark it really gets.
They like the internets version of mental illness.....the one with clean tears and recovery arcs.
Not this.
Not hallucinations. Not paranoia. Not bleeding in the dark and pretending it was nothing.
This is my reality.
A battlefield in my skull.
A ghost in every mirror.
A drug for every demon.
And a thousand cuts I never talk about.
Because no one really wants to know.
No one ever wants to know what goes on between my eyes.
