A Life in Hiding

I can’t find my place in this life. My days are whiled away living through my discomfort and unease, my inability to function, and I’m not sure I can keep it up day after day, after week, after month, after year. It is breaking me. I’m not the person I wish to be.

I’m overwhelmed by options of (paid) help, so I engage in none of it. Part of my mindset has been somewhat stoic as of late, and perhaps I should hail this as a position of empowerment? My fear would be that this is an unhealthy retreat, and a reluctant acceptance, due to being at a loss to do any differently. Do I accept my inability to make decisions? Do I settle for a life greatly reduced in its experiences, relationships and fun? Do I let my brain remain a depressed and anxious one because at this time that is all it is capable of being? This is where I’m at right now, but I know I would like to be capable of more.

‘My brain is not right’, I wish to tell all those ‘close’ to me. The strain of producing a ‘normal’ front hurts me. It strains and alienates and isolates. How can a friendship be true when you don’t show, or tell of, your real life? Ridiculous is a word I use a lot to myself – my secret days are ridiculous, my situation is ridiculous, my going without help for my mental state is ridiculous.

Attempts at sociability are painful. Once upon a time I would have drunk myself ‘confident’ and ‘fun’, but my body is now so ill in its homeostasis that alcohol is not an option – no bad thing for body and mind, but my abstinence does not help my efforts at being a ‘friend’. When everyone around you is letting down their hair and indulging in inebriated banter and behaviour, to not follow suit is greatly frowned upon and expels me from the inner circle. The inner circle seems not so appealing with the removal of alcohol. Alienation and isolation from piers is furthered.

I am (unfairly) resentful of those who know nothing of my desolation, of those whose worlds carry on whilst my soul rots away behind closed doors. The odd text feels all too little. I know that I have not done enough to warrant more. My history means I have limited history with those in my life today. Family are different, and I feel slightly justified in my resentment at their non involvement, but hey, it is what is, they are who they are. I sound sorry for myself. I am sorry for myself. This is all too, too hard. No one person should be alone with this.




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