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.