It seems that no matter what I do, this random wave of sadness always finds its way back to me.
I stopped telling most people in my life whenever my mental health takes a turn for the worse. I actually heard someone recently say that it’s exhausting having a loved one with depression and anxiety.
The last thing I ever want is anyone to care about feeling exhausted because of my struggle.
I’d rather suffer in silence than tell anyone what I’m feeling because I learned the hard way of those repercussions.
“You look exhausted.”
Thanks, I’m just trying to stay alive.
I’m not afraid of the end anymore.
I’m afraid of waking up tomorrow and having to carry this weight all over again.
When you’ve been at war with yourself for so long, death starts to feel less frightening.
And that, my friends, is a scary place to be.
