My mom and I are close.
I tell her everything. We don't live together anymore but she would always call me before and after my work. I tell her how my day went and what I had for dinner. We would talk for hours about everything and nothing.
I would tell her about my co-worker who doesn't seem to do any work at all. I would tell her about a high school friend who got pregnant, or about an old lady who talked to me in a bus. I would tell her about the security guards who would greet me every time I pass by, or about a little kid who asked for my lollipop.
But I don't tell her the thoughts that I kept on pushing away from my head. I don't tell her that sometimes, when it's raining hard and a very sad song is playing, I would get sad too. I don't tell her that sometimes, when I'm anxious, I want to curl away from the world and hurt myself. I don't tell her that sometimes, I just really want to fuck it all and die.
I tell my mom a lot of things. But I can't tell her that her baby girl is not okay.
I can't tell her I'm nowhere near okay.
5:25
YOU ARE READING
anx·i·e·ty
Randomyou were six and you're never good enough. you do this wrong, you did that right -but not quite. you were six. and you're never good enough. you're thirteen and ain't smart enough. you can't pronounce faux pas properly. you cannot derive formulas...
