Demons.

My demons tend to get me when I am at my weakest. They crawl out of the woodwork and they hound me until I am ready to give up altogether. It's like they are slowly tearing muscle from bone, tendons snapping under the pressure of their claws and bursting my blood vessels until my brain is incapable of being logical. I can't stand the thoughts that pour through me, so much that I lay paralysed; tears streaming down my face and praying for sleep.

I slowly turn inwards, forgetting everything that is around me until I end up pushing it all away in a pseudo retaliation. I forget that they can't feel the things I feel, they can't hear the things I hear and they can't see the things I see. I forget that they have no idea what is going on in my messed up mind and then I am left where I started myself off; alone.

I am entirely sure that I have destroyed things. I am entirely sure that I have built myself up to a crescendo of devastation that there is nowhere left to go from here and it bothers me to see the sadness that lives behind my eyes right now. I forget this can happen. I am so numb from everything 99% of the time, that I forget that the extremes of my mood still exist, that they are merely waiting to express themselves when I am too weak to fight them off.

I honestly am my own worst enemy.

No.

I always know when I have slipped into a depression when I can't listen into any music without feeling like every single lyric is beating me. It's like I can feel every emotion every person in the whole world has ever felt all at once - without being overly melodramatic.

I've said it before and I will continue saying it - I don't talk. I can't talk. To talk, is to own up to the fact that I am emotional fucking handicapped and am incapable of dealing with basic feelings. To talk is to pretend that I am able to be a grown up person and deal with things in a mature way.

No.

I sit, I stew and I fucking ponder, until I am sick to death of churning the bullshit around that I simply shake my head and move my thoughts somewhere else while the negativity claws and screams and leaves me drained. Work. Home. Work. Home. Churning and churning. Non.fucking.stop.

I can't help but slip into the usual patterns of behaviour. I can't help but feel sorry for myself when I well up at nonsensical and inconsequential songs. I can't help but miss times when I felt whole - like I wasn't a broken child, desperate for simple touches or reassurances.

Self pity doesn't always work, but when you have been denying it, it almost feels like a relief to admit to it. I need to keep myself in check before I fall into old habits and completely fall to pieces.