Red to Brown

Ever since I wrote here the other day, I’ve been trying to decide what to write next. I gave myself such a lofty standard, that I would only write the truth, and now it seems that the truth is far too dangerous. I keep getting this mental image of myself going to a therapists and them asking me to just tell them what I’m feeling.. and all I can do is cry. I cry until my tears fill the entire room and while the therapist floats as the water rises, something black rises beneath me and takes hold of me, dragging me under and into darkness. That’s what I’m feeling. That is the truth of where I am.

There are good days and bad days. Today happens to be a bad day. I would classify a ‘bad’ day as one wherein my thoughts linger too heavily on those things that hurt me the most. (I keep backspacing things now. That means I’m in a red zone, and I’m terrified). People think that Hayden is a distant memory–some great life lesson that allowed me to travel the world. I want them to think that. I want them to think that everything is alright now. I don’t want sympathy, and I don’t want to answer questions. The truth is, there has not been one day in the past one year, five months, and three days that I have not cried about Hayden. Some days because I miss him. Some days because the whole situation has made me feel so broken. Some days out of frustration or white hot rage. It is a constant and never-fading mental anguish of one sort or another. 

There is no point in actually confiding in anyone about this, though. People say that they are there for you but they can’t even begin to fathom… They think that if they come in accusing Hayden and condemning him, knowing none of the facts, that it will somehow make me feel better. Here’s the filthy truth, though: Hayden didn’t destroy our relationship, my mental illness did. And show of hands of who thinks I would actually ever confess that to someone when I can’t even hardly confess it to myself.

A secret none of you, not even those I talk to daily and count my true friends, knows? I talk to Hayden’s sister every day. She knows the truth of everything inside and out, and therefore is a proper sounding board who doesn’t just throw flames at Hayden blindly. Most of you, if not all of you, would condemn me for it. I need to let go. I need to let go. I need to let go. I need to let go.

I can’t.

Scratch that. I don’t want to. I don’t have to. 

I’m tired of being sick. I’m so utterly exhausted with my own mind. The struggles. The never-ending battle raging inside my own head. Waking up and feeling like a bear is sitting on my chest, weighing me down. Get help, they say. Talk to someone. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t stop repeating myself. That means I must be so far in the red that it’s turning brown.


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