On the outside
I appear just fine. Full time job, go out semi-regularly, smiley and loving life… right? If anyone tried to look deeper they’d see the cracks. In my stories, that fact that I’ve always got a drink in my hand when we are out. If they came to my home they’d see disarray. Up until lately my room has been a depression dumping ground with no ability to move around, let alone clean. If they saw me without long sleeves/pants, they’d see the cuts. Hundreds of them, from the past few weeks of daily mutilation. The problem is no one sees what’s underneath, and I have no way to making what appears on the outside manifest on the inside. I can play the role, but as soon as I step out of the spotlight, I turn off and become a walking cloud of misery. I try on personalities like daily outfits, hoping one fits just right, but each night, I take em off just to reveal the black hole filled with barbed wire that is my true self. It always has been. And I should accept that it always will be. If it wasn’t for my job, and my inability to find a belt in the chaos that is my room, I would have ended it by now. But I can’t. But why not hope? Life can always get better! Atleast that’s what everyone tells me. And I try my hardest to believe them, have a little faith and keep on trudging. 28 years of trudging. I’m getting tired. I was angry in my early twenties, frustrated that I had spent years suffering and couldn’t find a way to make it stop. Meds never worked, just uncovered new and fun problems I didn’t realize were there. Therapy kinda works, but it doesn’t make it go away, just teaches you ways to deal with the feelings. And I’m just tired of dealing with them. I know the skills, I’ve done all the workbooks. Yet every second of every day is filled with a desire to end it, and a deep unbearable hatred of myself. I fill the moments with tv shows and pretending to be the adult I’m supposed to be. But it makes no difference they are all still there. Under the surface