Perhaps you think that writing about my struggles with depression is weird. Or perhaps you judge me for it. Depends on what you know and think about mental illness I guess. Some wonderful people in my life, people whose opinions I seek and trust, have told me they think it's brave. I'm not sure it is, given how easy Blogger makes it to publish my posts. Hah. To me, it just is. It's what I do. It's something I've found to help me and others, and so I do it. It is a purpose, for me.
I come back to my blog over and over again. In times where I wish to share my happy times, where I seek comfort in my lowest of lows. Times where I wish to share something I've learned about mental illness or otherwise. Times when I don't know where else to turn.
There is something about the blog, it allows me to be truly honest, with myself, with others. I don't find it as easy when I'm in person with someone. When I'm around other people, I hide my depression, if it's affecting me.
Today I hid my depression. I pretended it didn't exist. It's TK's birthday, and I don't want it to exist. But it's there, it's affecting me, and now that we're home, I can't get myself to forget it. Maybe it's better to fake it, to pretend it's not there around everyone else, and only "give in" when you're alone. Maybe if you fake it, you are forced to recover. I don't think that's how it works though. And I do know that for me, faking it and refusing to talk about it is exhausting. I'm done with that. So I write.
Today I am feeling trapped by my life, by myself, by everyone around me. I feel like nothing will ever work out right, and I feel lost. I want to curl up in the bed and never ever come out again.
Sure tomorrow is a new day, but today doesn't feel that way. It feels like the deep hole that I've fallen down has been covered up, letting no light in and so I can't see which way is up.
Let's end with some Radiohead today.
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