It’s not that I don’t like myself completely but there are days I wish I was a little like other people who weren’t going through mental health issues all the time.
Let me back up. As a kid I was always that quiet kid, I wasn’t happy nor a sad kid. I was quite well-spoken as a child and obviously super creative.
I can’t really pin point when that shyness became eagerness but everything became gray. I seen things about the corrupted world early enough to notice and I wasn’t even in high school yet. If I didn’t fit in before, I definitely didn’t when I became a teen. I was reserved but eager. I wanted to change the narrative but once I got to myself, depression sank in. I felt alone. I always felt that no one liked me and not no one wanted to even hang out with me.
Again, I was always eager and always had hope for better no matter the situation. With that, life is a battle and I’ll do my damnedest to win.
However, when I’m by myself, I write. I write everything from poetry, to thoughts and my inner most feelings. I’ve learned it lightens things for me. It helps make things a bit more manageable. My personal storm and feelings feels tangible and validated if I can capture my feelings long enough to wrestle them onto the page.
With lack of a support system or empathy towards me, I learned no one cares about me. I can only do that. I also know inside my head lives a liar. This liar is sometimes booming, and sometimes whispering. The part where my depression heightens my sadness and chronic pain.
So l’ve come to this: I don’t like me. There’s a part of me that doesn’t like the person I am. A part that cannot accept I am good enough.
But that’s okay, I have hope and that’s what really keeps me going.
Most days…
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