When I talk about my depression, or BPD, or everything else that’s wrong with me, I talk about it frivolously. I talk about how I know how to cope with it. I’m used to living like this. And how I know I’m going to stay stuck here forever.
But when I truly feel it, it’s a completely different story. It’s like all the air is sucked out of my lungs, and it doesn’t come back for days and days and days in a row. My mouth feels dry and my head is as heavy as a rock. My mind is telling me to stop, constantly. Thing is, it doesn’t, ever. It goes on and on and on with same thought. STOP. STOP. STOP. STOP.
It never does.
So here I am. Writing about it one more time. My way of getting it out of me. I might as well say it all.
First, I’m gonna start by talking directly to some of the people who affect me the most.
To M. For all the time and space he took from me. For the countless months we’ve been joking around like it’s nothing, when it’s not.
I can’t blame you for what you do. I can’t tell you off because you’re exactly like me. Except you’re happy with it, and I’m not. I wish you could stop and think. I wish you cared about me, even if it was just a tiny bit. I wish you would want me and think of me as much as I think of you. But you won’t change and I won’t care enough to try it. So we’ll keep playing our game, every other week, every other month. Our casual game of secrets and car talks that last until sunrise. Our drunk nights together and mornings spent trying to wake you up. We’ll keep playing, and I’ll keep sinking.
To J. For the stupidest one night to remember I’ve ever had.
I don’t even know your middle name. I don’t know your birthday, or what kind of food you like. I met you for 16 hours and that was enough for my heart to drop when I think of you. Thing is, this NEVER happens to me. I don’t need you and you know perfectly you don’t either. I shouldn’t even have texted you. But you did exactly everything you shouldn’t that night. You did the right thing with the wrong girl. And now you’re off with your life, as I usually am, not even thinking about that one random drunk night with just one more girl. But me? I’m here. Stuck with my obsessing mind and my anxious heart. I wish I had never met you.
Maybe it’s because I’m lonely. Or unhappy. Or bored or whatever else I can be. But this feeling kills me. The feel that nobody likes me, or ever will.