I am.

I am hurting, aching, and lonely.

I am.

I will pretend to be fine. If you ask me how I am, I will smile and say, “Okay!”

I will.

But the truth is, I am not okay. I am not fine.

My eyes–my eyes are full of tears, blurring the world around me.

My body is sensitive–noticing small changes. A change in tone. A disappointed look. A lack of interest. A scowl. No response.

I notice. I think. I wonder. I blame–myself.

I feel like an utter inconvenience. A nuisance. A pest.

Clingy, needy.

Mad, sad, and desperate, all rolled into one person.

I simply care too much. About it all.

I feel, despite all the work I’ve done, unworthy.

Unworthy of love. Unworthy of friendship. Unworthy of human connection with others.

So, I pull away.

I turn into myself and become one with the ache. I don’t like me. I don’t want me.

Why would anyone else?

I hate myself for saying this. It is the antithesis of what I am supposed to feel and know. The antithesis of all I have worked on the last 12 months.

But, it is also what I know. What I have been designed, nurtured, and tortured into feeling.

I am not okay.

I am not fine.

I am not invisible, though I feel like it.

I am here. In the hole. The place that I hate. Digging myself deeper and deeper.

I am.

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