It's no secret I've suffered from depression for a long time. Paired with the ridiculous anxiety I have, it's not a pleasant combination.
I'm not comfortable explaining why I'm this way. I know what's wrong with me, I know damn well why I'm depressed and have wanted to kill myself in the past. But I can't talk about it publicly, at least not on blogs my mom knows that I write for and under my actual name. If certain people knew about the physical and emotional trauma I've been through, I don't know how they'd react. Especially when it comes to my mom. She's tried asking about it before, but I can't open up to her. Not yet. It's all still too...fresh. I have to deal with the pain every day and sometimes I feel like I'm going to explode. I look around me and wonder how no one can see that there's something wrong with me. Maybe my smile's too convincing.
Maybe it's because no one sees the days where I'm curled up in my room, shaking and trying not to cry. Trying not to cut. Trying not to give up. Because I still remember everything, or most of it. What's put together of my broken memories paints some scary shit.
I feel trapped. Because beyond anonymously writing for other blogs and frantically DMing certain friends only to quickly clear out the conversation in hopes my mom doesn't see it, I can't tell anyone else. It'd made everything fall apart. Things would get worse. I'm not sure if everyone would believe me, or believe just how badly I've been affected by what happened.
So I'm quiet, but it's killing me.
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