I'm sorry that I'm not the daughter you wanted. I'm sorry that I'm a shitty sister. I'm sorry that I'm depressed. And I'm sorry that I cry a lot. And I hide in my room. I'm so sorry that I don't do everything you ask. I'm so sorry that I'm not pretty and perfect. I'm sorry that I put such a damper on your lives. And that I'm tired. And antisocial. Please forgive me for being a human being. I really am sorry that I exist. I wish I would disappear. To make it easier on everyone. Seen as such a horrible person. Seen as it's impossible to be nice to me. Impossible to deal with me. Impossible to love me. Im so fucking sorry.
You never noticed. I don't get how people never noticed. You don't notice me always in my room because anxiety and depression are holding me down. You don't notice that I take a long shower so that I can cut because that is the only time my mind goes blank and the voices stop. You never noticed how I stand with my hands on the side, my sides hold my cuts because my pants are rubbing against them and it burns like hell. You never noticed that I wasn't sick all those days I didn't go to school because I was too depressed to get out of bed. You never noticed or heard me crying into my pillow at night. You never noticed when I skipped a meal or started counting calories. You never noticed and now it's too late.
It makes me sick how sadness is addicting. The way I can't stop. Sadness is familiar. It's comfortable and it's easy in the sense that it comes naturally to me. But everything else is hard. The way my body aches with self hatred. The way my mind spins and spins with helpless thoughts. The way it poisons everything I do, every relationship I have. Yet it's addicting, because I know sadness, I know it very well. And there's some comfort in that, like being home after a trip or sleeping in your own bed after being away. There's just a sense that this is were I belong. This is how it's supposed to be.
And now I leave you with this:
There was a demon living in my head
But she answered to my name
She tells me stories late at night
That are messing with my brain
When I stand before a mirror
She laughs at what I wear
The freckles sprinkled on my face
And the way I tie my hair
Do the people sitting on the train
Fight these demons too?
The kind that make you doubt yourself
And tell you what to do
Maybe that's why they never talk
Because they're screaming in they're head
Why would you hate someone else
When you could hate yourself instead?
YOU ARE READING
The Untitled Story of an Anxiety Disorder
RandomI'm the girl who is always there for people when they need a friend but I am also the girl who faces many issues alone, but would still do anything to see someone else smile. This is the diary of someone living with anxiety. Some people might think...
