Two Halves, Same Coin

By. Jodie Moone

Sometimes, I feel like I’m two people.

Half of me is the person the world sees, with a smile and ease about them; the other part worries continuously weighed down by my thoughts.

It feels like rain when the latter turns up. The clouds closing in around me, darkening all of the light as the droplets fall heavier as she approaches, blanketing everything with tears from the sky.

I like to imagine it’s her arrival song, her entrance music, even when I know it’s all in my head; because her feet make no noise against the soil, and there’s nothing else causing a sound other than the ‘rain’ meeting my bones.

She’s the darkness in a bright day; the heaviness when you already feel weighed down. She’s that version of me peppered with sadness I can’t shake, needing control and hunting for perfection.

I don’t even know why she turns up, because some days it’s when everything is going amazingly, but she’s there in the background, a constant reminder that joy is fleeting.

To anyone around me, I seem like anyone else. I appear happy, friendly, not at all someone who people would suspect would be reliant on medication to keep them from losing themselves. But I am, both close to the edge and in need of a pill, I take each morning with a milky tea, no sugar.

Without the medication, she’s more significant, and I’m smaller; she’s more than a shadow in the corner, instead of a looming presence that makes me weep. She steals all my brightness and the sun from the day; she takes the wind from the between the trees and brings coldness I can’t shake.

She misses me when I take the tablet, I can feel it, but I’m better without her.

I’m me.

I can put words onto a page; I can sing along to the radio without worrying about getting the words wrong. I can place my palm on my husbands’ cheek and not lose myself in wondering what he’s thinking as he looks at me.

There’s no chance to feed on my emotions when she’s barred from me; locked away in a cage I can see, but she can’t get through to me. Not yet, anyway.

There have been times where she’s escaped. The metal of the cage bending under her will. Her hands around my neck, pressing her nails into my skin, making it bleed. She’s the one doing it, but it’s me clawing at myself to feel something; it’s her pulling strings, leaving me feeling like a puppet that’s drained of heart and feelings.

She’s me, and I’m her. Two halves of the same coin, but it’s hard to see it that way when we aren’t anything alike. I’m dry, sarcastic and intuitive; she’s dark, closed and silent. We wear the same face, use the same foundation to cover the blemishes and apply the same mascara to our long lashes. When we look in the mirror, we see the same eyes staring back; no one can tell the difference, they can’t see which version of me they’ll get from my exterior.

Today, though, the air is light, and the sun is peeking out. It’s been this way for a while, a clean scent to the air, and yes she’s here, a reminder that I can never run too far, but she’s far enough away. I’m on my knees playing with the dog, not worrying about what’ll happen when I leave him to go to work; a smile is on my face as a song comes on my playlist. For the longest time, it’s been this way, but the memories of her being beside me still keep me on my toes. Like on the days where the sun shines, but it has been hard, she’s closer having been there for all of it. In a way, she makes me feel less alone.

I may hold onto words for longer; I even misinterpret facial expressions and analyse them for longer than I should. I may also feel guilt over standing up for myself, all because she’s close, a figment of my mind that’s so real I can almost feel her breathing. But eventually, I shake all of that from me, stepping into the souls’ shoes I’ve bought, the stronger soul, the one built up with talking in a grey room with a woman clutching a clipboard—the ones I picked out when she was last caged.

Sometimes I remember the harder days, bitterly reminder of my time at my lowest, tears soaking into my cheeks as my chest ached with pain. I do it to make the better days more apparent, to show myself how lucky I am to have my head above the water.

Her touch is like ink on paper, spreading over it, poisoning the day, my mood, and those around me. At first, I didn’t know she was there, but the day I saw her, I found I could never unsee her again. Even if I like to tell myself I was fine before she showed up, I know it’s not true; she’s always been there. There’s always been something hanging in the back of my mind-wardrobe, a skeleton-thought that never left the dusty confines. It’s nestled between coat hangers holding words I never said and dreams I never chased. I think she was born from the dust at the back of my mind. All the things I never did, never said, never chose; she grows from regrets, sadness and madness. I let her form, becoming more powerful than me, but I don’t want to again.

It’s why I spoke, hearing her scream as I clutched the tissue in my hand, letting all my secrets spill out in the grey room, with the whiteboard and clipboard. She bled that day; I found her curled up inside of me, wounded but not defeated.

Living with her isn’t a battle, it’s a war.

It’ll be something I’ll carry for my lifetime, and I’ve sharpened my sword in preparation.

Sometimes I’ll win, standing over her as she lies in the dirt. I’ll have her backed into a corner, her figure half the size she usually is.

Other times she’ll triumph and leave me hopeless in the sheets of my bed. My cheeks will be stained with my pain, my words unable to leave my throat as they cling to my tongue. At times though, whether one of us is winning or not, we’ll both feel alone—we have that in common.

So when you look at me and see only one person, remember there are two. There’s a version of me you see, and a version rife with anxiety; they live inside of me in unison, both battling, both fighting.

Sometimes you’ll never know; sometimes it’ll be all you see.

On occasion I’ll be smiling, and you’ll believe my joy to be true, but even if it isn’t, don’t feel bad for being tricked—she wouldn’t be doing her part if she didn’t lie so well.

Because I have an anxiety disorder, but I’m not my anxiety disorder. I’m a person who is prepared for her war.

Most of all, I’m an unafraid woman, because I’ve defeated her once, and I can do it again.

Jodie Moone is a writer from Derbyshire, England. Diagnosed with an anxiety disorder in 2017, she's made it her mission to talk openly about mental health in the hope of normalising the conversation. Over on her blog, pagesofthemoone, Jodie writes about her love of books, mental health, and her journey with writing her first book. When she's not buried in a book or leaning over her keyboard, she's taking walks with her corgi, Cheddar, and her husband who keeps her grounded. Twitter: josieleawriter | IG: pagesofthemoone