Madison Wheatley
Bad Thoughts
I can't do this anymore.
There it was again, that voice like claws scraping against my skull.
I sat curled up tightly on my bed, my body rocking back and forth lightly while music blasted through my earbuds, loud, but not loud enough to drown out that strident cacophony that had been steadily building to a crescendo in my head. Sweat beaded on my brow and my skin felt clammy—I felt sick and agitated, like my soul was trying to twist itself out of my body.
I’d made it four weeks without cutting. Four weeks in which I’d gotten so cocky, so self-congratulatory. I’d told myself it would never happen again.
But now, in the dark of my bedroom, the wind screaming at me through the half-open window, all I could do was curl up in a fetal position and try to beat back the bad thoughts that slithered and coiled like vipers.
I can’t do this anymore.