I only ever post when I'm going through a meltdown

There are minor feelings. Minute feelings. Small, inconsequential seeming emotions that turn out to be the building of a swell. Checks on a chalkboard that add up, like you’re in prison, confined and bored, counting the days. Ticking time bombs, turns out.

These little things, unfortunately, they build. People like me aren’t prepared for such developments. Drain the bathtub and hide the bleach, don’t let people see the little emotions.

I feel like I’ve spent my entire life hiding from little feelings, scared to let anyone else know that it’s become a tide inside of me dragging me out into the deep blue. Jesus, I feel so blue all the time. It’s so unfair to people who care about me, and there are many. It’s unfair to them to get the 2 AM calls and the frantic messages.

I’m blue. I’m sorry. Can I call and just listen to a friendly voice?

My dad always said that when I’m sad, my voice gets too high-pitched. He can’t hear me. He cant understand me. I am a crackling voice on one end of a tenuous connection that he can’t decipher because it’s beyond the human ear’s capabilities. How am I supposed to tell my dad that I’m trying but I have a cursed brain that keeps trying to kill me and oh my god my entire body feels like it’s on fire, but I can’t express it in an octave that elicits care not disgust?

I imagine him.

Calls in the middle of the night. Middle child trying to kill herself again. Exhausting. I am screaming because screaming is the only thing that helps but no one wants to hear someone screaming. You’re on the receiving end of another Ally meltdown. You want things to be okay but between everything, the middle doesn’t feel like the middle anymore. There is no ground because I constantly feel like I’m falling to my death. Even typing it out, I’m exhausted of myself.

Back to the little feelings.

So here they sit. Somewhere between the diaphragm and despair. Little pellets of lead. Am I being weighed down or am I the weight? I don’t know how much more therapy I can do. I intellectualize my emotions rather than feeling them, but some boy told me recently that I feel too many emotions. Grippy sock vacations call my name like the way the sea calls to others but I am losing my grip on who I am. Minor little feelings, small cuts, many of which sit on my wrists. Scars and graffiti. Confetti, a celebration of a life that felt too many things. A memorial service for the greatest burden. Here lies our greatest regret. Potential laid to waste. A waste, an expenditure of energy and money and time and what else do we have space for on the tombstone? Here lays a lay-away. Here lies a liar. Here, now, quiet. We tried to help her, but she was beyond saving, and Christ Almighty, may you bless her in another life with a voice an octave lower. Is that a good epitaph?