I got out of bed once today and that was to get a popsicle. I walked into the kitchen around 5 pm, had a quick conversation with Evanne’s mom, grabbed my popsicle and went back to bed. I ate my popsicle, turned a movie on and watched it until it ended. It was an okay movie. It didn’t really make me feel any different so I probably wouldn’t recommend it to a friend. I’m not even going to tell you what it was called.
I turned my light on a few minutes ago because I had a great idea for a blog. I got out of bed, put my hair in a ponytail, turned on my light and here I am, writing about absolutely nothing. By the time I sat back down and put my fingers on the keyboard, I lost my inspiration, basically my entire concept.
The only thing I remember about my original concept was that I wanted to say that I don’t feel well.
I try to be as open with you all as possible. At this point, what’s the point in hiding anything? I’ve already laid it all out on the table so there’s no going back now. The damage has been done.
But recently, I’ve started to ask myself,
what’s the point in continuing?
I don’t mean that in a melodramatic attempt to seek attention by saying
“no one reads anything I write so I’m going to stop” or “no one cares about me what’s the point of even doing anything“
or whatever. Because I know that’s a load of bullshit.
I know people read what I post. Not everyone, not even a lot of people sometimes, but I know people read it and I know a handful of people who actually enjoy it. Which is awesome and I thank you if you’re one of those people.
I guess what I’m getting at is why am I continuing to talk about this kind of stuff? The self harm, the depression, the anxiety?
I’m not making a difference. The only thing I’m doing is making myself more vulnerable to the world’s ignorance and lack of empathy.
I thought sharing my struggles would educate people, make them understand me.
I thought maybe if you could see that these things happen to every kind of person, not just drug addicts, reality tv stars, or survivors of sexual assault that maybe the world would be a better place. These things can happen for no reason and without explanation to someone like me. Someone like you.
I thought if I put myself out there then maybe someone would actually get it but it seems like I’m only doing more harm than good.
You’re still grabbing my arms and touching my scars and asking me questions in front of strangers.
You’re still excusing that behavior when I come to you and tell you that I was embarrassed and hurt by someone touching my scars and calling me “emo”.
You’re still laughing at people going through things that I go through, but it’s okay because they’re being crazy yet I’m not.
You’re still telling me to “relax” when I finally reach out for help.
You’re still asking “well what’s wrong?” and expecting me to have an answer.
And I’m releasing shifts at work because I can’t find the will to get out of bed.
And when I do find the will to get out of bed, I’m going out drinking and staying out too late with people that don’t even really like me because that’s one less night spent crying in my bedroom.
I’m snapping elastic against my skin because even though I’m in recovery, pain is the only thing that can calm me down when I feel anxious, angry, or upset.
I’m asking my best friend to sit with me in the middle of the night because I’m afraid of what might happen if she’s not there.
I’m having to tell everyone “I don’t know what’s wrong” and “nothing happened”.
I’m going from feeling as if I’m never going to feel normal again to feeling so intensely happy that I actually might burst, all within 24 hours which is so exhausting I can’t even describe it to you.
I thought by now these things would stop happening but words can only do so much. I put my heart into informing everyone I could but at the end of the day, I fight this battle on my own.
I’m still me. I still laugh at stupid jokes and I still cry during the season two finale of Grey’s Anatomy. I still bite my nails and I still sleep with a stuffed Winnie the Pooh Bear every single night. Just because things are hard sometimes doesn’t mean I’m a bad person or that I’m losing it or that I’m changing. It means I still have an illness that I haven’t completely overcome. It doesn’t go away just because I’m aware it exists. It doesn’t go away because I decided to write about the symptoms on the internet. I still deal with it and sometimes it takes a toll on me.
Sometimes I’m okay but sometimes I’m not. That doesn’t mean something happened or that I’m doing this to myself. I have a mental illness. And I’m trying to make you all understand but I’m losing friends and losing sleep and I’m just tired of trying to get the world to understand me at this point.
The world doesn’t owe me anything so why am I giving it everything?
I’m sorry, crybabies.
PS: I’m sorry if you all are disappointed in my lack of writing skills with this one. I know this didn’t really have a point and I rambled on and on but I just had to post it. It could have been longer because I have more to say but I’m tired and I had to already stop twice because I couldn’t stop crying. So forgive me. Maybe I’ll try harder next time but who knows at this point.
And to those I have lost along the way, I’m sorry I couldn’t be better for you. I’m so sorry.