Numb

An exploration of self harm and the weight of life for teenagers and young people.

I don’t know what this feeling is.
It creeps in without shape, without language. A pressure under the ribs. A hum in the bones. It isn’t fear. It isn’t sadness. It's just there, like a seperate heartbeat I never asked for.
And when it rises, it says things in a way nothing else does.
Not words. Just a push. A tilt. A wanting.
A need to hurt, in small quiet ways no one ever sees. Nails against skin. Teeth against cheek. Tiny violences that vanish before anyone can notice.
I tell myself I’m fine. I have a good life. I’m lucky. Blessed. Whatever word makes the guilt quieter for a few seconds.
But the feeling still sits there, smug and patient.
I don’t cry.
I don’t let anyone find our.
I just feel it, like a weight placed on my chest by my own mind.
“These are the best years of your life.”
People say that with expectancy, with certainty, like it’s magic that works on everyone.
So why do I float between happiness and nothingness at the same time?
Why does joy feel thin, and numbness feel thick?
Why do both sit in my throat like twins arguing over who gets to stay?
I feel full and hollow.
Bright and dim.
Alive and not.
Why?