You stare into the mirror. You look at yourself but you don’t feel like you’re looking at yourself. You can’t process the fact that the human in the mirror is you. You feel disconnected. Numb. You’re either feeling too much or nothing at all.
I woke up with marks on my wrists. Two vertical, red slashes on each side. They were written with sharpie, but meant to look like self-harm scars.
You could get eight hours of sleep and you’d still feel like you stayed up all night. You could do nothing all day long and still feel exhausted.
It’s the endless wondering and wishing I could be better.
You love her because you love her depression too. You accept her sadness even though she doesn’t.
Maybe life is the easy act of existing. Being, instead of becoming.
I want to tell you that your body is a beautiful vessel that holds you, that keeps your pain inside, and keeps you safe.
Why is it still so shameful to own up to suffering from mental health issues?
Self-harm is a very real and very ugly thing.