No one can see them. No one knows they are there unless they know you or if you have told them. You don’t want to tell people. You wish it was an external wound, like an amputated leg. Then, you wouldn’t have to explain. You put on a face to hide the scars so you don’t have to talk about it.

Why do we hide it? Are we ashamed? Are we scared someone will ask us how we are? Are we too proud to accept help? Whatever the reason, we do it.

Sometimes, we get so into pretending we’re fine, that we trick ourselves. We tell people we are fine, and actually believe it for a minute. Then, after they are gone, we realize we aren’t fine. Then, the feeling is back, and we are, yet again… alone.

I feel whiney, depressed, and pathetic. A burden to everyone around me. A charity case. No one really actually wants to help, but they do out of a feeling of obligation. They pity you. Maybe this is the depression talking, but that is the reason I have such a hard time accepting help. I don’t feel like anyone would actually want to help me. Why would they want a project friend? I’m broken, and to fix me takes too much work. I try to distance myself. I don’t want to drag anyone down with me. I should do this alone. This road is too dark to bring anyone else along. It would be a disservice to them.

Sleeping. I don’t do this much anymore. However, I fall asleep at the most inopportune times… like at the movies, at the salon when I’m getting my hair done, when I’m trying to work, or when I’m making dinner. One time this week, I fell asleep in the shower.

I don’t want to be this way. But I don’t know how to get up again. I’ve been kicked in the guts, and I don’t have the energy. “Do something for you” means sit around and feel mopey. I don’t want to do anything for me. I don’t want to do anything at all. I do the bare minimum to get me through the day. I’m not living. I’m surviving.

I’ll admit it now. I’m shattered.