I can’t seem to escape; there’s no safe place. Pills that only numbs the pain and the echoes still play their silly little games. This is my body, my mind. Why can’t I take control and tell depression it’s not welcome here anymore. I’ve drawn up an escape plan that I can’t bare to administrate. Maybe death is the only really true way to escape this transgression of anxiety and depression.

Performing simple tasks like the grocery store has become a chore I hate. Can’t breathe, I broke out in a cold sweat. A panic attack has taken its rightful place inside my chest. Look at you, you’re so fat and ugly, they’re all staring at you. Can’t you see that everyone hates you? Don’t eat for a couple of days, and plastic surgery will wash that ugliness away.

Stop I scream enough. This is my body and my head. Now I command you to evacuate. It’s quiet for a moment until depression and anxiety decides to manipulate.