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I have Brendon and Emma, but as long as I keep everything to myself, I'm alone.
I hate everything about this.
I could talk to Emma, but she's angry on my behalf. She starts ranting about how awful my parents are, about what a traitor Brendon is for siding with them, about how everything in the world is unjust.
She's right.
But I don't want her being pissed for me.
I'm plenty pissed myself. It's just... I can never quite find the words to express it. Not verbally. Not to anyone else.
The only place where I can really get my feelings out is my journal.
I've always loved pouring my feelings onto the pages. Though love isn't the right word. It's more of a frantic need. If I skip a few days, my thoughts turn into a jumbled mess. I get fuzzy. Overwhelmed.
My head goes to dark places.
Last year, my head started going to dark places all the time. It was before Grandma got sick. It wasn't for any reason, really.
It was like falling asleep. It happened slowly, then all at once. Food stopped tasting good. Everything I read—even The Hunger Games—failed to grab my attention. Class was boring. Parties, hangouts, and study sessions stopped appealing.
I didn't hang out with anyone but Emma.
And I didn't even want to see Emma. It was some combination of her insistence and inertia that got me watching Disney movies at her place every afternoon.
Otherwise, I didn't do anything but go to school and work. But even that felt so hard. Like there was always a ten-pound weight on my chest.
I couldn't sleep. I couldn't think. I didn't even want Brendon.
I was empty.
I started seeing a therapist. According to her, I have high functioning depression. Instead of falling apart and doing nothing, I channel my self-loathing into achieving.
Apparently, it's my broken brain. Instead of telling me I'm not good enough, it latches onto grades. They aren't good enough. But then they never are. Even when they're straight As.
It took a while to find an anti-depressant that took the edge off without dulling me completely. The first one made me tired. The second kept me from coming. The third gave me nightmares. This one is tolerable. It pushes all those thoughts about hurting myself to the back of my head.
If I keep up my routine—healthy diet, not too much sugar, just enough caffeine, cardio every day, journaling every night—those ugly thoughts stay at bay.
But they never go away.
And they never will.
I'm broken.
I'll always be broken.
I've accepted it, mostly.
But no one else has. No one else knows.
If they find out, they'll leave.
So, I keep it to myself. I keep all my writing—the poems, the stories, the journal entries—to myself.
Fan fiction is fine, but anything personal—that's mine.
I write things from my heart all the time. Words get caught in my throat and I spill my guts on the page. It's like that expression. How do you write? It's easy. You just cut yourself and bleed on the page.
