They Don’t Know

I have this amazing ability to pretend that I’m just fine when I’m absolutely not.

I can be with others in the same room, at the exact same table and they don’t have a clue about what lies beneath my pasted on smile.

I laugh and make silly jokes. I’m a human jukebox and often find a song lyric to fit any topic that comes up during conversation, which helps me to engage in the banality of smalltalk.

They don’t know that my heart is always racing with anxiety, that there’s a pit the size of a small apple sitting inside of my stomach almost constantly.

They don’t know that all I really crave nowadays is to be alone so that I can stop acting like I’m actually glad that I woke up again.

And that I’m filled with shame, guilt and self-loathing when so many others would give anything to have woken up again.

Why can’t I just stay thrilled with the gift of life for any long length of time?

I’m tired of being a burden and an ongoing project that isn’t finished yet.

I’m fed up with trying so hard to finally be healed. I’m told continuously to let my demons go, that all I need is to think more positively. I feel like I have to magically transform myself for the comfort of others…that I need to mend all of my broken parts because the way that I truly am right now just isn’t good enough for anyone.

That I’m not acceptable in my current state, a middle aged woman, who’s filled with grief, fear, anger and weary deep within her soul.

I’m tired of trying so hard, taking three steps forward only to backslide five again. Each time that I start to think that I got this shit licked (just when I’m getting a bit cocky) I get knocked down off of my high horse.

Then I get to face my reality and cry myself to sleep because I failed once again.

I’m exhausted from feeling alone even when I’m sitting at a table with others.

I’m so great at pushing it all down and they don’t know.

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