Suffering In Silence |✔|

Thought I Was Better

I thought I was doing better, but considering I’m writing this down it should be perfectly clear that I was wrong. I was very wrong. If I were doing better my heart wouldn’t feel quite so heavy. If I was doing better I wouldn’t feel seconds away from crying at the slightest tone of disapproval. If I was doing better I wouldn’t have been shaking from the nightmare I was ripped out of this morning upon waking. God there are so many things that would be different, I wouldn’t be so quiet, or solemn, or scared. I thought I was doing better. I really thought I was, and yet as I type this I can feel myself closing up again. I don’t want to shut it away, that doesn’t make the feeling go away. I want it to go away, I want it to stay away. I don’t want to be tempted to find out what drunken oblivion feels like everytime I’m left home alone. I don’t want to feel so hopeless that I imagine how easy it would be to overdose on something in my house everytime I take my medication in the morning. I don’t want to feel compelled to hide every insecurity with a sarcastic quip. I don’t want to feel this broken, I don’t want to feel so shattered and dejected in every instance of silence. I want to be able to do things because I want to, I want the tasks not to be a chore done to keep people from asking me if I’m okay. I don’t want to have to convince myself that I’m okay every moment I’m awake. I don’t want to be such a liar when it comes to other people asking me the same question I’m constantly contemplating.

For a while I thought if I lied well enough to myself about being happy it would trick my brain into thinking so. I was wrong about that, you can’t trick what makes you feel that way in the first place. I mean placebo effects are real, but you can’t know that it’s not real for it to work, Pessimism and Placebos don’t mix too well. I guess that’s why I’m back again

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