Broken (in the best possible way)

It’s a strange thing … to be tangled up in things no one else really cares about. To be so busy with worry that your constant back-and-forth looks like utter inaction.

I’m in that bad part of depression. That step past sad. The step into numb. It’s not a good numb. It’s uncomfortable and out of control and I wonder if I’m even real.

I didn’t have the strength to visit the amazing places that were offered to me even when they were just outside my door, and I hated myself for it. I understood, and I empathized with myself, and I told myself (correctly) that if I used the massive amount of energy it would take to go outside I wouldn’t have the strength left to visit with people w

The world is shattered and we wander barefoot through one another’s broken shards and glittering slivers.

another sneakier, terrible thought where I realize that if I do die I’ll get some rest. That’s fucked up. I know it. And as soon as it hits my mind I shoo it away because I know it’s the depression, but this is a place for honesty, so there it is.

I tell myself I will be me again soon. But until I am, I may be a broken dove, reminding others of the terrible but fantastic visions that come with an unquiet mind and the strange burden of sometimes becoming a shadow.

Life is full of these moments that are supposed to be amazing but end up being questionable at best.

One friend is a lot. It’s one more than I’ve had at many times in my life.

I don’t know what it’s like not to have anxiety but I assume it’s like that. It’s probably not exhausting.