It's dying to step into the sunlight outside, to soak up the light and warmth – and turning away and closing the blinds, for no other reason than an indefinable but incontrovertible inhibition.
It's wanting, so badly it hurts, to reach out; the need to hear a friendly word, for someone to understand, to care – and shutting everyone out.
It's starting a fight as a desperate plea for help.
It's the urge to scream and cry and rage – and remaining silent and withdrawn.
It's screaming and raging, and lying on the bed with tears pouring – completely empty inside.
It's seeing destructive (self-destructive) patterns, and being unable to break them.
It's opposites. It's contradictions. It's dichotomies.
(It's watching yourself build your own tomb while you're still alive – for now – and silently screaming for someone, anyone, to get you out. Screaming, and screaming, and screaming… and no one hears. How can they, when you don't make a sound?)