The Irony Of That Conversation…

I said: “Everyone has problems.”

You said: “You don’t. Your life is perfect.”

I didn’t argue.

But I did come on here right after you left and started writing this whilst inside me everything’s all jumbled up and messy and broken.

We all have our problems, okay. I might not have a horrible home life like you. I might not have been through the same things as you. But let me promise you: I have plenty of problems.

Yes, I have what looks like the perfect life- loving family, nice house, plenty of money etc. And I do actually have all of those things. My parents raised me perfectly and I have never been mistreated in any way. I am loved immensely by my whole family and I’m the daughter they love to be around and have conversations with and I’m not under any pressure from them. And yes, I’m intelligent and get good grades. Yes, I am pretty confident with my appearance.

But just because on paper everything about me looks perfect, that is not the case. I’m fucked up. I have no idea how I got this way, but there’s been something wrong with me for years.

I’m sad, okay. Really, really dangerously sad at times. I call those times my ‘Dark Days’ because that’s what they are. They are the days that can come out of nowhere when everything I think is bleak, dark, suicidal and empty. I am not always the happy, smiling, optimistic friend you’ve come to rely on.

My sadness might not be there all of the time, but it’s there enough of the time for it to become a problem. Every now and then and increasingly more often, things get terrifyingly dark in my mind and I find myself completely lost. I find myself sitting and thinking about either death, the pointlessness of my existence or nothing at all for hours at a time. I find myself planning exactly how I’d end it, if I had the courage. I find myself surrounded by friends just wishing I could disappear into thin air. I find myself going to sleep and hoping I’ll never have to wake up again. I find myself thinking of ways to make it painless for my family. I find myself fantasizing about jumping in front of trains or from tall heights. I find myself wondering if I’d be missed. I find myself curled up in a ball crying for hours. I find myself wanting to just run away, but not actually run anywhere. I find myself hating every inch of me and my selfish depression. I find myself wanting to disappear.

I have problems.

Just because I’m the kind, loving one who’s always there, you assume that I’m always this perfect. Just because I never say I’m not, you assume that I’m fine. Just because I have an ‘easy’ life, you assume that my mind is simple and safe.

My mind is destroying me and I can’t tell anybody.

Just because I’ve never told you otherwise, don’t make the assumption that things are actually perfect.

It’s impossible to know everything about someone’s life. I know a lot about you, but you know next to nothing about me.

And yes, I suppose that’s my fault, as I do keep this all to myself. However, what bothers me is not that you don’t know my sadness, but that you simply assume everything’s fine.

We go about life never truly knowing anybody, never knowing the full extent of their thoughts, never knowing how fragile they might actually be. Yes, it was just a thoughtless comment, and in your mind it seemed to be the truth. Maybe it shouldn’t have bothered me so much, but it really, really did.

I don’t want to be sad. I’d far rather be the person you make me out to be. But I can’t be. I never will be.

I’m just scared that I’ll never be able to tell anyone this.

And I’m scared that one day I might go through with it.

I love a lot of things about life, but your judgement makes me lose just a little more faith.

I want to die if death means disappearance.

You don’t know me and I’m scared to let you meet me.