Not for happy people

No one reads the dark. I don’t blame them. I’d be afraid to sink into the dark too if I wasn’t already here. The only ones that read the dark are those that recognize it themselves. They are familiar with it. Almost comfortable.

Being here means you’ve recognized you’re alone. There’s no magic fairy going to appear and make it okay. People say it will be okay, it will get better. But how? I’ve given up on waiting to be rescued. I’ve given up on forcing myself to be positive. Given up on smiling. Fake laughing. Putting the mask on. Holding back the tears.

I now know that this is life. Dark. Struggling from day to day. Just barely getting by physically, mentally, emotionally. I give my all to everyone and leave none for myself. I work hard in an effort to make them see: I am good! I can do this! I can manage!

In reality I’ll never be good enough. Smart enough. Pretty enough. Strong enough. Happy enough. I’ve finally realized that life is waking up and trying to be enough in order to survive. How miserable.

I’m fighting an uphill battle with a wheelbarrow of rocks tied to my ankles. I’m trudging through quicksand as dark as my mind. My thoughts don’t make sense.

I am not even capable of being coherent. My mind is neither here nor there. It simply dwells. On things big and small–but always dark.

I have disconnected myself from everyone outside. I’m better alone. Because people give me hope of rescue. And no one is going to rescue me.

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