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