This Old Town

one | regimen

. . . 

Terror and panic fill my mind and body all at once as I realize I'm being chased by 'it' again. I'm running so fast that the cool night air feels like shards of glass piercing my skin causing me agonizing pain. I'm breathing so heavily that my lungs feel like they are being squeezed and no air can enter again. My breath and steps seem to be one as they are synchronized in pattern. I can hear my patterned steps hitting the dirt ground, one foot after the other, bringing up mounds of dust with every step. The dust particles entering my nose and lungs only add to my ever suffering. And the stream of sweat running down my face combines with the tears in my eyes making me squint. My squinting must have obscured my vision making my trip on something...or someone. I fall, my hands and knees catching me as I hit the ground. I feel the microscopic stones spearing my skin open allowing my blood to spew out. I turn in fear as I become fully aware that I am on the ground allowing, whatever 'it' was that was chasing me, to attack. I wince in pain as I sit myself up and look around for the nearest place of shelter. I look right and left, as I do the blood is drained from my face and my mouth turns to cotton as I see what is face to face with me... 'it' is here.

My stupid alarm rings, allowing me to escape one nightmare so I can enter a new one. For the past seven months I have initiated some sort of love hate relationship with my alarm. You see it may have woken me up from my recurring nightmare but it still produced the worst sound on Earth.

I turn my alarm off and sit up feeling more tired than before I went to bed, the dark bags under my eyes only proving my point. I wake up drenched in sweat, as I have been for the past seven months. This night I only woke up screaming twice, which is an improvement. I exhale and step out of bed to get ready for as I said before, my next nightmare or as my parents put it school. Oh school, the place that could be best of times for some and the literal worst for others. I was the 'other' in this case.

I stare at myself in the mirror in the most unnarcissistic way possible. I mean how could I be vain when all I saw was purple bags under my already common dirt brown eyes. All I saw was a girl with messy hair, it looked damp because of the sweat which is gross. GROSS. That's how I felt when I saw myself. When I saw my chapped lips from the fast approaching winter or when I saw my blemished filled face. All my imperfections seemed to stand out more in the morning especially since having nightmares. Oh how these nightmares have changed my life.

Knowing how gross I felt and looked, I turned my shower on, letting the warm water hit my body, sooth my tense muscles, and wash away my worries. Worries of living up to my parents expectation, worries of fitting in at school, and most of all worries of surviving my nightmares that seemed to be winning this uncalled for battle.

I shampooed my hair with chamomile soap, lathering then rising then applying conditioner of the same kind. It seemed mundane...all of this. Having a nightmare, waking up in panic, turning off an alarm, showering, brushing my teeth, eating breakfast, going to school, trying to fit in, eating lunch, coming home to do homework, eating dinner, brushing my teeth, setting my alarm again, and then waiting to fall asleep only to repeat the cycle again for months to come.

Breaking my daydreaming, which seemed to be the only way my body could really rest for the past months, I quickly lathered on my body soap. The soap suds engulfing me as I trying making myself a beard. Again snapping myself out of no man's land, my thoughts, I rinsed and dried my body with a soft lavender colored towel. Wrapping it around myself I went to clean my foggy mirror. And just like that...I saw the same old me from before the shower only this time cleaned.

You were expecting me to say that the now cleared mirror revealed a better looking me, a happier me, and me that looked to have gotten a full 8 hours of deep sleep, but alas this is no tale of fantasies. Fantasies that portray lies of quick fixes. No my tales only tell of truths of trying to survive life in whatever ways possible. My tales sing a different tune, one that is miserable sounding. But like I said, my tales tell no lies. So as much as I may sound miserable, I know I'll get over it. I guess that's what has been keeping me sane all these months. Knowing that it has to end sometime...right? It can't be this way forever.

I pick out an outfit that consists of a grey knit sweater, simple blue jeans, and some sneakers. I then apply mascara, concealer under my eyes and on any blemish visible to the human eye, a bit of blush to the apples of my cheeks in hopes of looking somewhat lively, and lasting I apply lip balm to my winter damaged lips. I look once more to see if I'm somewhat up to par to my peer's standers. Content I pick up my backpack, place on my metaphorical mask so as to blend in and mask my feelings and worries. I guess having a mask makes me a hypocrite because it masks my truths but it is my only way of survival and I hope you understand. Nevertheless, I'm out the door ready to face my real life demons.

. . .