Blissfully Unaware

vent/rant hiiiiiii its a short one again so!

I’m not trying to turn this into a negative space, I’m just really going through it right now.

You can tell I’m not okay. It’s not subtle. It’s not a secret. And I see the way you avoid it, how you don’t ask, because you know the answer would make things inconvenient for you. I see it. I feel it. And it makes me sick.

I know how you work. I know you don’t care. And the worst part is, I don’t even know how I’d react if you did. Or if you faked it. Maybe I’d indulge in it a little, but it would feel so foreign I wouldn’t even know what to do with it.  Let me be clear: I’m not your responsibility. I never have been. I never want to be. All I’ve ever wanted is to feel like I mattered to you. Even just a little. To anyone, really.

My therapist is the one who asks me how I’m doing, and even that’s not personal. It’s his job.

And if I told him the truth. If I said I have episodes where I feel death hovering over me like a forgotten god, and I talk to the burning corpse at the edge of my bed. They’d lock me up again. Medicate me into silence.

I cannot be honest without consequence. Without judgment. Without losing more than I gain. So I lie. I shut up. I sit with it. And all I want, just once, is to come clean without feeling like a fucking freak.

Without watching someone’s face change. That tiny shift in their eyes. The twitch of an eyebrow. The way their mouth goes tight.

This is a burden I will carry until I die.

And you have never once lightened it.

Not even for a second.