It all started out as random hateful private messages on Instagram sent by one person from different anonymous accounts.
The time reads 3:53AM and I can hear the sprinklers outside as I’m writing this, and I have a feeling I’m going to hate myself in a few hours when the sun rises.
Even after unplugging and draining out most of the toxicity, I’m still left in a rippling puddle of bittersweet sadness, but I suppose that’s just life in general: you break, you heal, you grow.
In hindsight, balancing those two separate lives during my battle with mental illness was more draining and painful than any of the actual effects from it. That entire time, I thought I deserved the exhaustion, and that no one would understand, but the truth is that I actually needed all the help I could have gotten.
It’s fascinating, really when you encounter someone who leaves an imprint on you so deep that even the smallest trigger – a song title, a film, a name, a scent – will engulf you without warning in a tidal wave of emotions.
It hurts, I can tell