I want to tell you: I was depressed.
I want to tell you: I went out drinking and the next day I didnāt have a hangover per se, but I felt like my soul had been ripped out of me.
I want to tell you: My mental health has been rough and I canāt escape the brain thatās been given to me and itās feeding me in circles of hate hate hate until Iām empty.
I want to tell you: Yes, Iām busy. But the busy is welcomed, itās wanted, because nothing can keep my mind off of myself better then the distraction of neverending work and goals and progress.
I want to tell you: I donāt know how to talk to you. When you ask me whatās wrong I canāt explain that youāre the only one I donātĀ want to talk to.
I want to tell you: I donāt want you to take it the wrong way, so I say nothing.
I want to tell you: I hate that you love my curves. I wish they would melt off my frame, they are not welcome in my brain, I wish I just had the wherewithal and perseverance like I used to.
I want to tell you: I want to recover, but I donāt, so I canāt tell you.
I want to tell you: I love you, but I canāt fully love you until I tell you my whole truth but I canāt because itās much too scary a reality for me to face.
I want to tell you: Itās not about you, itās about me. Itās a selfish self-perpetuation of not wanting to give up on my reckless habits because theyāre the only thing that has been steady since I was 16 years old.
I want to tell you: Stop therapizing me. When I tell you I want space I mean it.Ā
I want to tell you: One day is not enough space.
I want to tell you: Iām not ready for this level of attachment.
I want to tell you: I want to be alone and I want to live alone, but right now Iām struggling, and I need to be with you.
I want to tell you: I need help, but Iām not exactly sure how to commit to it.
I want to tell you: Iām not sure if this is love.