Why is it so hard to tell the people closest to you things like “I’m struggling” and “I need help pulling through this depression”? I think it’s because even when we do try to tell others, it doesn’t get through. It comes out all wrong. It’s misinterpreted, or ignored. Sometimes it seems much easier to keep it to yourself, to pray it passes soon, before it ruins everything and everyone you hold dear.
The truth is, I hate myself when I am this way. I know it’s not the real me, but I can’t find any part of this monster that even resembles her. I just want to wake up from this awful nightmare, but I can’t. Not yet anyway. I want to tell everyone I love I’m sorry. I don’t mean to lay around doing nothing. I don’t mean to cry at odd moments, and to seem absolutely void of emotion at the wrong times. I don’t mean to be troublesome, obnoxious, a bore. I want to pull through. I really do. The fact that I am still breathing proves that. For all I do to try to help the ones I love when I can, why is that not enough when I am the one who is broken? Why do I feel like such a burden, like my living causes more grief than my death would? Is that this illness talking, or is it the truth? Because I can’t tell right now. And that scares the hell out of me.