The Metamorphosis of Tribulation

It was only a matter of days
A matter of hours
Until it would all come to an end
Soon, I would relinquish this mortal coil
This ball and chain that has left me alone
Alone with my mind
To torture my body
To devastate my being into chaos

It was already in motion
The pack of razor blades my father accidentally left
Taunting me from the glove compartment of my old, rusty VW Beetle
Now sits on my nightstand
Just inches away from my pulsing veins
Just feet away from the running bathtub

My hand quivered as I pressed the cuspate edge of the blade
Right to my forearm
Right to my life source
 

As the sharp point carved into my skin
I began to fade
My heart, palpitating
My head, roaring
My consciousness, dimming

As I now recall that fateful day
I feel a depth of sorrow I cannot quite articulate
For the woman, null of any freedom of thought
Nearly becoming a percentile, so close to becoming a demographic composed of dead millennials

What I did not know that day

Is that that moment would be crucial

The final push to force me to speak up

Becoming a voice through my writing

For anyone who has been silenced

By the most sinister of demons

Not Lilith,
Not Beelzebub,
Not Mastema,
Or Asmodeus
But the demons known as,

Clinical depression
General anxiety
Anorexia/Bulimia
And PTSD
 

My transformation is not one of simplicity

It is not a moth transforming into a butterfly

It is grueling

It is an everyday battle with no end

But it is something that provided me with a life of substance

And a life worth living