TRIGGER WARNING! IF YOU ARE EASILY TRIGGERED, DO NOT READ.
I came across this picture on Facebook and was very moved by it.
The concept is extremely accurate. My demons, however, are a bit different
Depression isn’t smiling, and isn’t a “she.” Depression is a scowling, middle aged man, bulging with muscle, ripping at my hair and shoving my face into the dirt, while he drapes all his weight on top of me, and sobs.
Anorexia, or “Rex,” isn’t female either. He’s the hottest, finest, most mouthwatering blond-blue-eyed Abercrombie model with a kind, dimpled smile, who cups my cheeks in his palms and tells so, so sweetly that I’m a disgusting, slutty piece of shit, and if I ever want anyone to love me I need to stop stuffing my fat fucking face.
Bulimia is absent, but Trauma is there instead. Trauma is a scruffy, bleeding, malnourished kitten, cowering out of sight, too terrified to make any noise or give away a single hit that she’s even in the room.
Anxiety is an eight year old girl with scraped knees and a runny nose. She’s not crying. She’s screaming.
Anxiety would be the loudest of the bunch if it wasn’t for Self-Harm. She’s Anxiety’s exhausted, distraught, embarrassed mother. Self-Harm will slap her daughter across the face (or thighs and forearms) and dig sharply manicured nails into the palms of her hands to stop her from making a such an outrageous scene.
We’re not sitting at a table. We’re in a circus ring, and my demons are a herd of starving lions, dancing along the edges and constantly threatening to close in.
I’m standing barefoot and alone in the center of the ring, holding the whip.
