I am sorry.

Tell your story. What’s on your mind? After I come back to the room, dragging a tired body up the stairs, I open the laptop and hit all the social networking sites open. Scrolling up. Down. Refresh. I shut it down. Take off my spectacles and gulp down water. I change into nightclothes and prepare to sleep. This is when it starts hurting.

The sleep which had been killing me all day, suddenly travels downwards. It creeps down my throat, becoming stickier by the moment, till it reaches my stomach. By this time, it has transformed into that scary witch again: anxiety.

I lay awake for hours, bouts of panic attacks stiffening my body, bending my feet into cramps. I want to shout but I muffle my voice in the pillow because I am tired of telling people. I don’t want any pity in that moment. What I want is a tight slap across my face and being forced to breathe. Trust me, I can literally feel the last vestige of the oxygen leave my body and it is a good two or three seconds before I can force myself to breathe again.

Tears roll down my cheeks as I lay spent, looking into the dark as my roommate’s soft, heavy breathing brings me back slowly. I am sorry. I am sorry for being like this.

This is an apology I owe my body, which has no clue why I stand with the toothbrush in my hand for five minutes, looking at the mirror. It is just my brain telling my hand that I have to start brushing. This is an apology I owe my entire existence, for making it so hard. For making it think that it is not enough.

Always trying too hard, to compensate for what my brain is continuously telling me I lack. Laughing too hard. Talking too loud. But always feeling small.

But, this is also an apology that I owe you. I know I am not what they’d call the perfect person. I never was and I never can be. Behind the closed doors, you have seen what my disease does to me. I have slowly come to terms with that. And trust me, I try. I try to behave just as normally as others. It’s not my fault that I need you more than other people in other kinds of relationships. Remember, when one text reaches you, it is because I have pushed myself to the last limit of not needing you, before I pick up that phone.

If that is called being needy, then so be it. I do not get what is wrong with needing a person in whose presence I do not have to go through excruciating pain. Nobody says a person is being needy when they ask for an inhaler, do they? Social tags is not what bothers me. What does bother me is that I sense a little impatience in you. A change in routine. A motivation to do something new. I don’t blame you, if I were in your place, I would be scared too. I would be scared and bored. Who wants this kind of responsibility? I understand.

But I also want you to know that I am trying very hard. To give you your own time and not needing you at all, takes enormous amount of efforts from someone who is tired of brushing everyday. After everything said and done, I have a little damaged brain, but my heart is where it should be. I know you need your own time, because I need mine. I know that I need you more than you need me. And I’d be the last one to want to scare you off and I feel like I am doing it. This is phase. Just a tough phase. I promise I will get over it. I am not lying when I say that I am trying, I just do not think that I can play for your attention. I am a little different, but I can move mountains if I want.

Yours Unexpectedly.