This.

Standard

Because this is how it feels:

Everything. Everything starts to be exasperating. You start thinking that the world is going mad around you; that basic needs are a myth of your own creation; that you serve to make things worse. Those thoughts become physical as the sweats kick in, the pimples arrive and the tiredness starts.

Because this is how it feels:

The person you love most in life. The people that person loves most in life. They start being the targets of your own self-hatred. You take it out on them. These actions become statements about who you are: You’re scum. You’re heartless. You’re the lowest of the low.

And somewhere inside this is me.

Trying desperately to be heard but not sure of what to say. Trying with all my heart not to give away the depth of pain, with the result of misguided anger and words. Dealing with hurt and guilt and the words, the damn words that I cannot control and cannot take back. The thoughts that I cannot control and I cannot take back. The actions that I cannot control and I cannot take back.

Because this – this – this is how it feels: out of control.

You feel like the shit on society’s shoe.

That people are having to deal with you, or suffer through your presence.

Feeling convinced that the next word or the next text or the next tear could be the one to drive love away.

Trying so, so hard to change your behaviours and thoughts and attitudes and actions; reverting to solitude but it seems like anger. You don’t self harm but you’re kind of glad when you have pimples to pick pick pick pick at.

Wanting to be looked after, but wanting to be left alone. Wanting to be chosen, but drowning in guilt when you are.

Feeling as though your existence is cruel to the people you love.

Apologising.

Endless apologies.

Because I love you. And there are times – not very often, but they do happen – when my mood suffers a blow out. There’s generally a cause or two. But once it hits this point, I’m fucked. Logic is no longer my friend. And in this time, I’m going to be the absolute worst person on earth. But trust me: no one is going to hate me more than I am myself.

If you can give me some time, I will be back and I will be OK.

And I know, because you’re you that you’d give me all the time in the world.

But right now, I don’t feel like I deserve it.

Because this is how it feels.

How do you compress this to a palatable answer when someone asks you four letters?

r u ok?

You can’t.

So you say you are, even though it’s a lie.

But if there was a way to tell the truth, then this is mine.

I love you.

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