Look inside…

To love me is to be hurt by me.

I don’t do it on purpose. We can be at the point where you think everything is going to be okay, where you let your guard down and fall in love with me again…but the bull comes running into the china shop and every thing is broken.

No one hates that bull more than I do. Trust me, you can forget about it eventually. Not me. It’s always on the way. Sometimes it’s cage is made of steel and it takes longer for him to break free, but sometimes his cage is made of rice paper and it’s impossible to put him back. I never wanted him. He was forced on me by…fate?

When people hear that I have a mental illness they treat me one of two ways; I’m either to be quarantined lest you catch my sad, or I’m an infant in need of constant care and affection. You can ask me a million times a day how I’m doing and the answer will always be “fine“ because I don’t want you to pity me. I can be amidst a full on break down; I’ll just flash my adorable smile and say “I’m great, how are you?”, because its easier to pretend than to trust that you won’t shy away from me when I say “I wish I were dead”. Its not easy to be in proximity of an emotional mess like myself because people like me are black holes, absorbing all energy in our midst.

Its not fair to G or my kids. The days where I blow up over a question about water, or worse, when I try to take my own life…it hurts them more than myself. G has been my rock in all of this. Its always him that pushes me back into getting help, reminding me to take my meds; oddly enough he doesn’t believe in depression or anxiety. He laughs when I have to describe how my drug addicted, abusive mother is the cause of my PTSD, not the wars in Iraq. But, if I’m being honest, his behavior pushes me to succeed.

The last time I quit my meds was because my son threw them in my face. He was being irrational so I scolded him and he said that the only reason I was not sensative anymore was because I took meds. I never should have let the words of a child change my path. If this last tryst with beta blockers had worked, he wouldn’t have a mother. But people don’t understand the struggle, do they? The idea that I need a pill to cope with life makes me feel like the heroin addict or pot head who need their respective drugs to get by…but that’s the devil talking. Isn’t it?

If you looked inside my head you’d see me, walking in circles, worried about the call…the call that something bad is coming. At the same time there’s a bullhorn being held by another me chanting, “your mother doesn’t love you”. You’d see that every conversation I have with people I’m constantly second guessing them…they hate me, this is fake, they’re going to laugh at me the second I walk away. You would look at me on the outside and think, hard worker, loyal friend, loving mother, slightly obsessed but hopelessly in love girlfriend…and you’d never know that every time I look in the mirror I see FAILURE. Then, I hate myself even more for not appreciating the love I’m surrounded by so I cancel plans, stay home from parties, and just hide from people all together, ESPECIALLY if you knew me before I started melting.

No one ever bothers looking inside though.