I’ve have lived with a kind of self-awareness that many psychologists would applaud: an intimate knowledge of my meta-cognitive operation, the way I process, conclude, respond. Blessing, right? Quite the opposite. Truth? A never-ending serving of anxiety.

I grew up with strict Christian parents, myself and four siblings. My parents did the best they knew how but I wanted the impossible more. I was the emotional child who needed nurture. It was not available and so the desire was repressed. Huggless days with no bonding in sight. I remember my sister running to my Dad one evening after school (she’d seen a friend do it at scjool and was rewarded with a hug and a twirl in  the air). My sister only extracted the terse response, “Child, what is wrong with you!” My attempts at expressing a need for more than the available stoic was belittled and my mother’s “You’re weak!” Still lives strong in my mind.

I spent the better part of my life in my head, identifying and battling low self-esteem, perfectionism, OCD and anxiety. I was smart but felt foolish in comparison. Pleasure was not a part of my childhood- isolated incidences that made the desire for ‘happy’ risky.

The biting anxiety hallmarked even my breathing. I became angry at the world for its ability to scream and all I could afford was a whisper. I decided to deconstruct everything I was fearful of. With scorn, I privately made all my nemeses into rubble..but they remained so only momentarily. The side-effect if this was a kind of wicked desensitization and cynicism that has eroded my chance at heart-felt smiles.

I have long-since suffered depression. Formally diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder but knowing enough to see Borderline Personality Disorder lying square in there.

It hurts to just exist- empty and hollow. Anhedonia is the order of the day. I watch the world get excited about the little things and I crave their joy..the myrthfulness of their countenance. I want to escape this mental rumination where everything matters in my mind. I want to not think about the microscopic and make mountaims of the mundane.

Sad thing is..the world doesn’t see this side of me. They only see the facade I do each day.

And that makes me twice times as tired.

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