It’s hard to explain what’s wrong when the wrong’s been buried. How do you explain something invisible? How do you cry in a way that makes sense? I never learned how to say “I’m not okay” without feeling like a burden, so instead I shut up or shut down. Sometimes both.
They say it’s because I’m a teenager, like that makes the weight easier to carry, like it’s a justifiable reason, like pain is age-restricted, like being young means i don’t really understand what it means to feel too much and nothing at the same time. But I do understand — too well, maybe.
I know things I wish I didn't. I wish I could be stupid and happy. Blissfully oblivious to the horrors around me. But I see what happens in the dark. I hear what people don’t say. And I feel things that don’t belong to me.
Everyone thinks they know me, but they only know the version I let them meet. There’s a thousand versions of me scattered across people’s opinions, and none of them are me.
I cry sometimes quietly, but I never let it go too far, gasping for breath. Only tears that drip down the side of my face because my body doesn’t know what else to do. And when I'm done, I wipe my face, because there are people starving and wars happening where people die. And I can't even explain why I'm sad. So who am I to act like it even matters?
And when I’m simply sad, sad without communicable reason, smiling, laughing, until someone sees me. The words “are you okay?” in a genuine voice is my biggest weakness. And I cry with tears I didn’t know I had, memories I didn’t know still hurt in a way that surprises even myself.
People say I'm smart, pretty, talented, funny. I smile when they say it but it slides right off me. Maybe they’re lying. Or maybe they see something I never will. But what does it matter if I don’t believe them?
I think about what it would be like to be known. Really known. No pretending. No hiding. But I think if someone saw everything, they’d run, or worse — stay, and the mistrusting demons in my head torture me through their care. They lie to me, twisting love and hate.
So I scroll. I distract. I avoid the deep end of my thoughts because I don't know how far they go and I'm scared of what I might find at the bottom.
Love isn’t enough when the pain isn’t something you can touch. I think maybe I'm not special but maybe that’s the saddest part — that this much pain is ordinary. Yet still, every day, I wake up, put on my mask, and try again. Even when I don’t know what I'm trying for.
→ Request update
and then Add to home screen.