I haven’t told her so much.
She knows that I deal with depression, but other than that she knows nothing.
She doesn’t know about what happened to me, to my family.
She doesn’t know why I feel the need for a sense of control.
She doesn’t know that I throw myself into work to avoid my emotions, not just because I like it.
She doesn’t know that I avoid sleep because of nightmares.
She doesn’t know that when I’m not around people my loneliness eats away at me and my memories haunt me.
She doesn’t know.
