And not the pretty kind of sad.
Not glossy eyes and a trembling lower lip.
It’s the kind of sad where you are so overwhelmed with despair that you cannot breathe beneath the waves.
There is so much water around you, that you cannot even bear to cry.
You feel that you are sad, but for some reason it doesn’t really reach you.
Or maybe I’ve just gotten so accustomed to this feeling, that it just feels normal.
It’s not the kind of sad where you look at someone with pleading eyes and are wrapped into their arms.
No, it’s the kind of sad where you isolate yourself from everyone around you.
I don’t want anyone to touch me. I feel too disgusting. And a small part of me is afraid they will break me if they squeeze too hard.
It’s not the kind of sad where you walk around with your head bowed and have to drag your feet across the pavement.
Not the kind of sad where your almost literal dark cloud travels along with you and people will feel sorry for you when they see you.
It’s the kind of sad where you hide behind a smile and greet others with excitement, even though you haven’t slept for over two days.
It’s the kind of sad where you are suffering internally and no one around you seems to notice, but you can’t make yourself show them.
You wouldn’t want to burden them or worry them.
It’s not sobbing while sitting in a chair across from your therapist and begging them to help you.
It’s the kind of sad where you tell them you’re not doing well, but the lack of emotion in your voice and in your face make them underestimate how bad it really is.
It’s laughing awkwardly and making “sarcastic” jokes in spite of yourself (Even though you really mean them.), once the conversation gets too close to what is actually wrong.
It’s wanting to keep it all your little secret, but at the same time hoping desperately that someone will notice.
It’s avoiding every person who asks a little too much, even though you want them to care.
It’s not the kind of sad that can be fixed in an hour, or a day, or a week, or a month, maybe not even in a year.
It’s not the kind of sad where you put on your pyjamas and watch a movie while eating ice cream.
It is more like not showering for days or weeks, because you are too tired.
It is forgoing brushing your teeth for so long they start feeling fuzzy.
It is matted hair that takes hours to untangle.
It is reapplying and touching up the same mascara for five days in a row.
It is sleeping in the clothes you wore all day and not bothering to take off that painful bra.
It is feeling sick to your stomach and being nauseated, for no other reason than that you feel absolutely miserable.
It is barely eating one day, and eating so much you throw up the next day.
It is sitting on the floor of the shower, at 4am, in the dark, turning up the heat until steam clouds your vision and your back starts to burn, because the cols inside you will not be quelled.
It’s not dramatic songs, or staring gravely out of the window, or throwing things across the room.
It is hearing about people who recently killed themselves and wishing it was you.
It is not having the energy to do anything.
It is appearing to be “productive” and “active” while slowly tearing yourself apart.
It is not having any hope left.
It is laying in bed for hours, just staring at the ceiling.
It is wondering what use everything even has.
It is wondering what use you have.
It is picturing how much better the lives of your family and friends would be without you.
It is getting yelled at for things out of your control, but being too tired to argue about it.
It is cancelling appointment after appointment.
It is being more okay with dying than living for much longer.
It is wanting to die and making plans, but being to exhausted to go through with it.
That’s what kind of sad it is. And it’s debilitating.
andulkaphoto
yousharknotpass
2087
prguitarman
