I lied to you again about where I am. I despise lying but I needed to be left alone. I couldn’t tell you that I was actually standing there with a rope in my hands, that I was angry I didn’t have the guts, or that I’m terrified that the afterlife will be worse after all. I don’t tell you just how often this happens or that a part of me feels sure that one day I may never answer your texts at all.
Now I’m lying here in the pitch black of a nameless place, watching smoke mix against the steady stars of the sky. They seem the only thing that’s consistent and comforting- though I know that even they shall one day fall to the earth. My phone is sounding gratingly but I’ve been ignoring these messages all day.
This is going to pass.
Just like always.
I’ll be back to the tenacious, witty person you somehow have seen me as. Relatively I’m fine- I just can’t think of a positive spin to tell you how I’m doing right now. Most of the time I think it doesn’t matter at all or that you wouldn’t understand anyways.
But I won’t talk about it.
Not to you.
Not to anyone else.
I can hardly even stand the subject with myself. So I do everything I can to induce and remain in my notorious state of hypervigilance, so that I can keep moving, striving, pushing, and growing in strength despite the way I actually feel- that I’m dying, emotionally and physically. This chronic pain is probably why people often think me peculiar, or on drugs, because it’s one or the other; it’s anxiety, energy, intensity, and overstimulation- or its depression, lethargy, agitation, distance, and a presence stagnant and oppressive as death.
My body feels like a lead weight, aches pervade my muscles and joints, and everything is in a blurry slow motion. My mind is screaming at me to give up this futile, redundancy of motion, and scream along with it. I suppress it again- it will be there later. I can’t tell if I’m actually exhausted or if its just my body trying to somatize again. So I make the dreaded choice to keep going anyways, usually finding out that it was the latter. So I drink what’s probably my 6th cup of coffee, take another 12 hour “allergy” pill (of which will last me less than 6), and light another cigarette to try to temporarily patch the gaping wound of scalding misery in my mind- and keep going. I probably haven’t eaten near enough in months, and it’s my own fucking fault, but the anxiety makes it near impossible. I can’t think clearly and feel like I’m just a moment away from losing either lucidity or consciousness. I’m back and forth between the verge of snapping, a nervous breakdown, or both.
But luckily you can’t see that.
And I don’t care.
I don’t want to be courteous, patient, or considerate. But I smile anyways and try to listen to what you’re saying. I do feel bad when I forget things you tell me, but I’ve also been fighting within myself this entire time. Sometimes I can’t help but wonder just how much of the war that’s destroying me inside, even shows on the outside. People tell me I look normal. They tell me all the time that I seem better and that they’re glad to see me looking so well. That’s good right? Someone can have their peace of mind and leave me the fuck alone.
No one has to know that couldn’t be further from the truth.
It’s too embarrassing.
I deal with depression, but I never want anyone to know the conscious reasons why. As if I can’t even say it. It’s so difficult for me to even talk at all on any level- to bullshit that I give a shit about anything we’re saying. It’s as if I live in my head and living outside of it is so taxing and stressful. But it’s what I need. So I do it. I swallow everything inside, along with a couple more pills, and I can seem normal, or even hyper and talkative for a couple hours.
Why won’t I-
why haven’t I ever let anyone see what I really am?
What’s the point.
No one has to know these secrets, right?