heart eyes

ghosts

hi i'd like to put a disclaimer on this post, as well as kind of a trigger warning. this is heavily about depression and anxiety, so if that upsets you then please don't continue.

also, although i am writing darker stuff like this, i am in a good place right now and i just write to let out emotions i remember/still feel the effects of. i write about love despite being really single haha. there's no need to worry about my wellbeing or anything like that.

thanks for reading.

Everybody want to be tragically beautiful. They want to be sadly perfect and to attract all the right people with their closed-off mystery and angst, but they don't really. They don't know what it's like. I'm not saying that I'm tragic or beautiful or tragically beautiful, but I do know one thing.

They don't want the blood. They don't want the hyperventilation. The sobs, the fear, the starving, the vomit, the nausea, the sadness. The empty feeling you have for no reason. The pain. The look in your friends' and your family's eyes as they watch you struggle, not knowing how to help or what to do, so you shut yourself off without them realizing, just so they don't have to worry about how deep you've sunk.

They want the being put back together by someone. They want the I'm crying but you're here so I'm cured. They want their romanticized, beautifully tragic ideas of what mental illness is. They don't understand that I would give anything to be able to talk to someone without the urge to throw up. Be able to function like a normal human without literally crying because of having to leave the house. They don't know what it's like to cry, alone in the bathroom, while the rest of your family sits in the living room watching a movie, unaware that you're broken into a million jagged pieces, and terrified of never being put back together because you're not sure if that's even a possibility anymore. They don't see the pain. They only see the happy endings. They miss the ones where you die; where you lie in a pool of red, or at the end of a rope, or onto the ground.

They don't see it. They don't see that not everyone gets saved. They don't understand that some people are too far gone to be saved by love, and can only save themselves but maybe don't even want to anymore. They don't see that the pain of wanting to cease existence is greater than the pain of breaking every bone in your body. They don't notice your cry for help until it's too late.

But that doesn't matter, right? The people who kill themselves to stop the pain. Those who don't get saved by a knight in shining armor. Those who sit alone at lunch. Those with red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained sleeves. Those who stray further from sanity with every breath. Those who vomit from having to go to school because the nausea and anxiety is too much. Those who are used to shaking, crying, hyperventilating, completely losing it, sobbing in the bathroom from the slightest of nerves. Those who can't cope, so they stop trying.

Those people you see right through.

Like ghosts.