where are my happy pills….
Please don’t tell me how or why to love myself. Please don’t tell me that when I’m so sunken into a hole I’ve created you can’t stand there to dig me out. Because I’ve seen it, and everytime time it happens people give up on you. They throw their hands in the air and walk, sometimes, run away from you.
But let me tell you something, I fed myself when I could barely managed to leave my bed. I cradled myself at the bottom of my shower time and time again. And I’m the one who cleaned my cuts and fought out thoughts of suicide. I did it, by myself, for myself. I took care of me.
It’s not something I’m proud of, or something I mention often. But I did it, I did it all carrying the weight of an empty hole in my chest and tears clouding my vision. I fucking did it, and you could never understand how much energy it still takes me to get up and outta bed and fucking try to live my life when everyone around me is crowding me. You don’t fucking know. And I don’t tell.
This struggle now, its nothing new, an unwelcomed familiar. There is a thing in me that whisper me reflections of an ugly person in the mirror, tells me I cannot, will not succeed, that I’m not smart enough or gifted enough. It tells me I live a meaningless, pointless life and everythings for nothing. That I will never be happy.
The thing about my mental illness, is that its a sickness I cannot shake no matter how hard I try. I am going to be fucking sick the rest of my life. And that is exhausting.
I REALLY WISH I COULD LIKE MYSELF RIGHT NOW