Someday

I’ve just been down lately. Sad? I don’t know. I don’t really have much to be sad about. I’ve got two jobs, I’m working on moving out, I have a wonderful boyfriend and a family that loves me. Empty maybe. Tired. I’m not really sure what to do anymore. I’ve been taking my medications (got them changed for the third time) and while they do help, I still feel the same. Just more muted. Like there’s water in my mind, distorting my thoughts so they’re not as vivid, but they’re still so obviously there. I can’t stop thinking. I think about everything. What I do. What I did. What I’m wearing. Who’s looking at me. What’s wrong with me. Bad things. Thoughts no person should have. I can’t relax. I can’t stop.

I’ve got so many things wrong with me. Sometimes I wonder if the people I knew would still like me if they knew exactly what goes on in my head every single day. The things I do. The things I want to do. The things I’ve been trying not to do. I try to help others. I don’t want people going through this. It’s awful and it takes the life out of a person. I feel like a hypocrite though, giving out information that I myself can’t even take.

I tell people I’m doing alright. I’m getting better. And sometimes I think that I am, just slightly, but most of the times I know I’ve gotten worse. Sometimes I think that I’ll finally be brave enough to tell someone close to me about everything. All the things I’ve done. All the things I’ve thought. How I see myself. Sometimes I am brave enough. But those times are when I’m alone, and as soon as I see someone, I just chicken out. My parents want me to see a therapist. I get it. I do. But I just can’t muster up the courage. It’s hard enough to talk to my boyfriend who knows a lot about what I’m going through and what I’ve gone through. I still keep things from him. I shouldn’t, but I don’t want to scare him away and it makes me sad when he’s worried about me.

Someday I’ll open up completely.

But probably not someday soon.