akathisia

noun: a condition characterized by uncontrollable motor restlessness

♫ when i’m small — phantogram

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akathisia • [ak-uh-thizh-uh]
noun: a condition characterized by uncontrollable motor restlessness.

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i’ve walked 100 laps around my small bedroom—clockwise, counter-clockwise, and clockwise again. the floorboards have memorized my footprints now, and the keyboard already knows which letters i’m about to hit, and they all spell out the same word; H-E-L-P. help me because i’m trapped in my body, i want to escape it—I wish i could rip my skin open and lay it out on the floor, sew it into a dress of shame, and wear that shame over my raw flesh with pride. i want to feel big in my shame—if mother will call me shameless anyway, let it not shrink me into something microscopic. let the letters shine bright like the hollywood sign, and let the world flash their cameras at me as i put my pain on display because even if i do, display won’t bring sympathy or the love one needs, but it brings attention, and sometimes that’s the closest thing to salvation; just to be seen without being asked any questions, even if it’s in all the wrong ways.

the doctor already told me, aripiprazole comes with one side effect—akathisia, the need to constantly be moving—a restlessness so severe that you feel like your mind is manic—it wants to keep going, but your body says no. you remember this feeling, don’t you? your mouth kept saying no, but your body was betraying you. it always does. akathisia derives from the greek word akathemi, which literally translates to inability to sit. it isn’t just about seating your body—it’s your mind too, which refuses the seat. all you want to do is keep running until your brain finally stops talking.

all my body has ever taught me was the language of betrayal. anything that was meant to heal it—whether it’d be medication, love, prayer, or salvation—it only left behind bruises blooming like dead roses over my soft skin. the roses rot and maggots start to birth over bruises that were supposed to be beautiful acts of care, beautiful ways to heal, but i can only feel the ugliness in it; the agony of a restlessness no sedative can cure, a hunger that no amount of love can fill inside me, and a void so empty that it only fills itself up with the mania that’s dying off like fireworks in my brain—I can feel it bursting in my chest and burning my insides. i try to plunge into the cold ocean, but even then i’m still insatiable—even the vastness of the ocean cannot take the densely-packed akathisia i hold.

i grabbed the blade again after months of wrapping it away in the back of the drawer, but i grab it, sterilize it with alcohol until the scent itself intoxicates me with the memory of what it’s like to be cared for, even if it was a hospital and the kindness of strangers, and those memories are all it takes—a helpless body and a restless soul. and i drag the blade against my skin, never soft and virgin—I watch my pain spill over the tiles, but despite it all, my body can’t rest. this pain that once put me to sleep won’t even tire me out anymore. i prayed to god today that, please, let me rip open my skin, but even fate didn’t want to align today—for the first time in my life, i can feel the sharp burn of metal ripping my skin open, and even this feeling is not enough today; it’s an epiphany of realizing nothing will ever be enough, no matter how much madness or stillness it is.

it’s like maggots are crawling under your skin as every nerve is on fire. it feels like mania, except it’s mania’s kiss over my somatosensory system—my body gets to live with mania but married to a cold lover that doesn’t let the mania burst into flames. i’m dying and i’m stuck in my body; there’s no way out until another pill explores my bloodstream, or perhaps with habituation it goes away.

all i know for now, though, is i want to die. i feel like i’m being electrocuted inside-out, and it’s not just symbolic—it’s real. this is how i’ve lived in my own soul my whole life, a little girl in a grown woman’s body, and today a megalomaniacal manic stuck in a solemn body that won’t let me break free.

i don’t think i will tell my doctor that i am not okay, i’ve spent my whole life telling everyone that i was okay. i even cradle my restlessness at night like broken stars telling them i will be okay even as they break me because that’s what i’ve always been—a restless identity, i never lay my own head to rest nor let the thoughts in my mind rest on their own, i’ve always seen myself as a half that completes the incomplete—i am the madness to my sadness and the lifelessness to my restlessness, even today—especially today. all i wish for is to close my eyes and not wake up again in this body that turns against me, i wish i could live but my body wants to die—just a day without pain and pharmaceuticals is all i ever pleaded god for, the same god who brought upon me every hardship that rests deep in my bones today, still knocking on the door begging for such a wound to become tender again.

this is akathisia, it’s not just a side effect for some of us—it isn’t in your head, it isn’t in your body—it’s the very way you live and perhaps have always lived—in contradiction.