No face of depression or anxiety. No face of schizophrenia or bipolar disorder or OCD.
Being in love with you was like being drunk off wine – euphoric, weightless, like nothing could touch me.
You had earned it all, but you threw it away. You robbed yourself.
When I’m walking around, I think to myself, here is a place where I have failed. Here is a place where I have succeeded. A place where my heart was broken in more ways than one, as well as the place where it was glued back together again.
I don’t know where you are these days. I don’t even know your name or remember the complexities of your face. But I remember what you said.
Insomnia is not staying up until 3 am to binge watch Netflix.
I want to say Grandma, I just want to write and make people smile, is that so bad? Is that so bad? But instead I say, “I’ll figure it out.” That’s all I know how to say. Isn’t that what we’re all really doing anyway? Just trying to figure this whole thing out?