I have depression and I’m gonna write about it 

I look and act like pretty much anyone.

I function normally and i can socialise with people and I’m not shy. 

but I have depression.

I suffer with it. and i truly mean I suffer.

its always there no matter what good comes into my life . sure, it can get better but it makes itself known when the lights and sun go down and and when the lights and sun come up and everywhere in between.

depression doesn’t just go away when someone comes into your life . and it doesn’t suddenly come back when you have a break up or when your dog dies. it’s an illness. an actual mental illness. and you just suffer. like I suffer.

and it sucks because it’s really hard for me to talk to people about it and to explain what it’s really like for me and how it feels to be inside my head. normally I just joke about it and they also begin to joke about it and it never becomes serious.

I need to work on that.

what I really wanna tell them is that I hurt. I hurt when I am alone and i hurt when I’m in bed and i hurt when I am having a good time because I know it won’t last when my back hits the mattress. I don’t write anymore and i fucking miss it but I can’t bring myself to bring stories to life. I realized I’m a social eater. but it’s just because I don’t want them to notice that I’ve been getting skinnier and skinnier and more tired and more fragile. my wounds take forever to heal and I’m always tired. I am always fuckin tired. my room is never clean and i hate it but I can’t bring myself to do anything about it. and my hair is falling out. from stress or from not eating i don’t know maybe both but I hate it. I laugh and i joke and i go out but it’s just to try to fill what I know is wrong with me in my brain. 

this is all I have at the moment. 

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nobody too

and as my eyes burn up i slowly start to realize that I feel alone.

ever since I was a kid I could never be home alone or my anxiety would build up and i would freak out over the simplist of sounds.

a gasp of air would leave my mouth and my heart would pump fast and faster as I look around to find no one there.

fingers tighten around my throat and a sob leaks from my lips because I AM ALONE.

it isn’t the first time and it won’t be the last and even with this knowledge i fear for the future.

I fear for the fear.

come back here and feel okay.

I found a box of his things & then I cried again 

it contained a small amount of things: sunglasses he bought me, shirts he both gave me and that I stole, a bracelet he gave me from his trip to Florida (i asked him “isn’t this special to you?” and he replied “yeah but so are you”), the shoes he bought me after I refused, a ticket stub from our first date, and lastly, a like of poems i wrote about him. I knew I shouldn’t have read through them but the masochist in me won and i really felt it hit me.

he is gone for months.

we will not speak till january.

and the note we left on was bitter and awful and full of hurt and absolute confusion. 

I wasn’t sure who to believe at that point because nothing was adding up and i felt like my brain was going to fucking explode because so much was happening all at once and then you were just gone 

and all that’s left is me and her talking about the past and talking about how we’re gonna make it to the future.

happy birthday, you piece of absolute garbage 

August 10th, the day you were born. 

today is going to suck because you will be all I can think of today.

like, “what are you doing” and “are you doing well” and “do you still think about me” and “do you still think about her” and “do you think about what you did to us because you fucking ruined us both and i hope it eats away at you till the day you come back”.

I started a photography project on you. happy birthday; it can be your present. im hoping it gives me the temporary closure that I deserve because the day you come back i will be ready for it. I will no longer be the sad girl that is currently sitting and writing this. I will be strong and steady and firm and sure.

happy birthday.

fuck you. 

eye contact is a thing of the past, brown eyes.

everything reminds me of him. 

old cars, dimples, brown eyes, large steering wheels, dinosaurs, even fucking burritos.

he follows me everywhere I go and it sucks because I just want to heal and i cannot do that if he is still here in my mind.

he took my heart and my sanity to freaking south carolina.

memories in his bed and in his stupid beautiful car play in my head on a loop when I am alone which is the WORST because all I want to be right now is alone. 

brown eyes aren’t the same for me anymore which means I can never look my own damn self in the eyes without wanting to ball up my fists and pull at my hair.

i wasn’t cut out for this sort of thing.

from 2016. when it was bad.

when my dad catches me sneaking in at 3am i dont know what hes more disappointed in. the smell of cigarettes on my breath. the loss of trust. or the sight of tears in my eyes from letting you get to me. he taught me better. better than to slowly kill myself and better than letting a simple boy make me feel less than the goddess he raised me to be. 
when i wake up at 3am clutching my chest i dont know what to feel. and i dont know what to do. so i grab the pack stored away in my drawer and use my lit candle to ease my thoughts. i wipe my face and i close my eyes but the scenes of me begging you to leave me alone always flash.
it was 3am when i searched up harassment and manipulation. it was 3am when i stared at myself in the mirror and wondered how i let out get this far, this bad, this messed up. 
it was 3pm that i told somebody. it was the first time i ever felt like i could breathe. it was the first time i ever felt like i wasn’t going into battle by myself. 

but the tears never stopped and I’m out of cigarettes. the war is not won. i still wake up at 3am and now i beg for 3pm.