I Don’t like talking about my mental health.
*TW mental health*
I don’t like that I am ashamed of it. I am blessed with a sunny disposition that is easy to show while I’m among others – it’s just when I’m alone that it gets blotted out my another me.
A dark me that is ashamed of all that I am when I’m in the darkness. A wallowing pitiable mess. How can I be so indulgent and pathetic with such a beautiful world around me. Beautiful people.
I’m a sex blogger – I can’t think of anything worse than sex right now. It makes my skin crawl to think of anything remotely erotic.
That’s the how crippling it is. I’ve sabotaged myself so completely that I hate all that usually brings me pleasure.
My dreams are violent and destructive. My house has rotten beams and walls crumble to rubble. I’m being fucked and I’m coming hard but the curtains are open and everyone sees. Black soot cascades from the chimney and blocks my breath. I gasp. I gasp. Then chastise myself for being so pathetic.
I reach out my hand and withdraw it before I can ask for help.
You put your hand on my hair to comfort me but it feels like bone scraping on my dry skull. The sound of it pierces my amygdala and splinters through my soul.
And now I’m ashamed. I’m ashamed to hit publish. Like too many posts before, it will remain in the drafts because, who wants to read this? It is not a cry for help, I don’t want or need advice or help – I have had this my entire life, I know what to do. It comes in waves. Sometimes daily, sometimes hourly.
It’s just been a long few months.
So why would I hit publish? It’s not a positive message to inspire. It’s not a call for help. It’s not entertaining, sexy, smiley, light, fun or anything else that I expect from myself.
It just is.