I'm living a double life where I pretend I'm happy I'm alive. Spoiler: I'm not.

I feel like I’m living such a fake double life, that I don’t actually know who I am under everything. I am a good looking lady according to society’s standards with good hair, nice skin, Kim K body, and I come from a pretty decently well off middle class family. Mom and dad are madly in love and adorable and worked hard to put us kids through college where I was top of my class graduating with a communications degree and went on to be an award winning journalist/blogger, and then started working for a good university and started working towards my masters degree. Aaaaaaaaall this and I volunteered all the time, spoke out about mental health(ironic and you’ll find out why) and did every anonymous selfless acts as possible. I’m not saying this as a “oh look at me and how much of an angel I am.” I’m saying this because I cannot do enough good in this world to make me feel like my existence isn’t a waste of space.

I suffer from high functioning depression and have my whole life. I literally wake up and want to die. I don’t remember ever not wanting to just hop in front of a bus or simply swallowing pill or even getting cancer and dying a painful death like I deserve. I hate everything about myself. Everything. My looks, my brain, my personality, my body, everything. I think I am just the worst person ever. I hate myself because I think I’m the biggest burden on everyone for just existing.

But you’d never know that by meeting me. I put on such a front to literally everyone. I am outspoken about the realities of depression and how there shouldn’t be stigmas on mental health and all that Jazz. I tell my family, my friends, and my therapists that “although this is something that I’ll forever suffer with, it’s just my cross to bear and letting others know their not alone shows me I have a purpose here” and all that bullshit. The only reason I’m STILL here is because I hated how much I hurt my mom when I first attempted suicide. She made me promise that I would never do that again and she means the world to me and I could never hurt her ever again. But I hate being here. I hate pretending to be anything. I hate that cutting myself gives me a release and I hate that I’m such a fucking good liar. But most of all, I hate that I’m loved. If I wasn’t loved and didn’t have the parents and upbringing that I was selflessly given, then maybe I would be alone in this world and no one would love me and then I wouldn’t hurt anyone when I left. So here I am, loved unconditionally by a fuckton of amazing humans, stuck hating every second and every piece of me.

I’d like to be clear, I am not going to do anything destructive to myself. I’d like to make that very very clear. I am on meds, and am mentally stable.

My door

I don’t know why it’s the back of my close door that’s my spot.

But it makes sense.

I lean against it sitting on the floor, excepting defeat.

Back pressed against it, so I have a few extra seconds to prepare if someone comes to check on me.

They won’t.

But I prepare anyhow.

Sitting down because I have no energy left to keep my legs from giving out soon.

I sit there and look at most of my belongings, trying to get just one momento to catch my eye and steer me elsewhere.

It won’t.

Point is, I can see why it’s the back of my closed door.

My childhood door was pink and had pictures from magazines cut out all over it.

I don’t even like pink so I don’t know why I chose it, but I don’t know why am sitting here, tear soaked, ready to make myself pay in blood.

My grown-up door is always plain.

Maybe wood are painted white.

There is always something that sane me put there to distract crazy me from the thing I’m about to do.

This time it’s a painting from an important friend.

Someone who I most likely disappointed somehow.

I always disappoint.

And that’s the thought that goes through my head as I push the blade down on my skin.

Drawing blood.

“Always disappoint. Always disappoint. Always disappoint. Always. Always. Always.”

The door is always the spot where I cut myself because I hate myself.

Always will be.

Silent Ugly Crying

I’m a pro at silent crying.

Sitting in traffic, in the bathroom stall at work or in target, in bed next to someone, collapsed in the shower, or at the gym.

I cried during my yoga class last night.

Lights were off and I ugly cried quietly on my mat.

I also cried yesterday at work just sitting at my desk and not caring who saw me.

I’m trying to stay alive over here. The least of my problems is who may see my mascara smearing.

I just get so fucking angry at my mind and my body and my whole freaking self. Fuck it all.

This is endless. Relentless.

It doesn’t matter what anyone says. They can tell me I’m like Mother Teresa and I will still hate myself and cry myself to sleep.

I can’t cry at “normal” times.

I don’t feel emotions like “normal” people do.

Normal people don’t want to destroy their bodies to match the ugliness that is inside.

People keep asking me if i’m cold. But I’m just making my sweater as tight as i can so maybe I won't explode.