Growing Around the Void
Waiting and seeing
I lay in my bed, just beyond arm’s reach from the bottle. I think about it — taking the pills, escaping into nothingness instead of enduring the hollow feeling growing inside me. It’s a void where real emotions should lie. A void that is masked by the façade I wear to make those around me a little more comfortable or to make myself pretend I am okay. I can’t tell the difference anymore.
I consider reaching over, but the bottle is too far away. I don’t have the energy to walk over and get it. Instead, I sleep. If I’m too tired to grab the bottle, at least I can find some solace in the darkness.
When I wake up, the void feels the same — maybe worse. I’m exhausted despite my slumber, but I must put the mask on again before stepping out of my room. I decide to give it a shot to take the advice my therapist gave me. Anything at this point feels worth trying because the final act would be permanent. I exercise, just as she told me to, but the void only grows. I feel even more lost in my exploration to make my way back to myself.
My friend beckons me to discuss her issues, needing comfort in her own pain. I leave my room to talk with her. I try to put on the mask again. But it slips a few times; hearing her pain while mine eats at me is more painful than lying in my thoughts alone.
My therapist told me to be around people, but I ignore that advice retreating to my room instead. I call my mom. I hope for comfort, but frustration meets me on the other end of the phone. No one understands why that my efforts only exhaust me more. They’re frustrated, but no one is more frustrated than me.
Weeks pass, and the feeling grows heavier. I’ve stopped trying to leave my room. Occasionally, I say I want to die aloud, hoping someone will take it seriously. Hoping someone will do something. But they can’t change the void inside me. I’m desperate for anything to halt its growth. I increase my medication, go to therapy, try meditation, try working out — it was all supposed to help. It was supposed to fill that hole.
It’s a wonder I haven’t picked up the bottle yet. Each time I think about it, I opt for sleep, too exhausted to act. I go to a party I didn’t want to attend all because my therapist said it would be good for me. I put a smile on my face and observe the others. I wonder if anyone feels as empty as I do right now. I keep following my therapist’s suggestions in the hopes that they’ll diminish the void or at least stop its growth. I keep going despite the weight of the void.
I start going to church, finding a flicker of purpose in the emptiness. That small feeling of fullness gives me hope. But the next week, the void returns — heavy and suffocating. I feel hopeless again, yet I keep pushing. I remember that moment of hope, believing it might return — might fill the void a little more.
Slowly, the medication begins to take effect. The void fills just a little more. I stop having the thoughts. The ones that leave me clinging to the thought that if I let the void consume me, others might be pulled into it too.
The void begins to close. Bad days still come. Those days leave me feeling that emptiness again, but I hold onto the hope that has begun to bloom.
I begin to envision a future again — a happy one. The void remains, but I’ve finally learned to grow around it. I understand that it’s okay — that it might not leave me, but I will grow around it. I know that times will come when the void grows larger than ever before. But I’ve made it through once. I have the hope that I can do it again and again.
