White on White

I used to just walk around - in a daze, like nothing ever really mattered. I used to just sit and stare and wonder without ever producing any results. I used to take the matters of life and death similarly, and very lightly. I used to be unable - no, incapable, of distinguishing the meaning of anything beyond the day to day monotony of indecision. I wasn't living. I was just being.

I don't think what I am is called being sick - even if that is what everybody says. I don't think that is it, because it is something I do to myself. And I don't let anybody understand because I don't want anybody to understand. And I don't talk about it out loud to anybody because I don't want to have to explain it to anybody. And I don't want anybody to ask questions. But I think I need somebody to ask something. Because the same reason I do it is the same reason I don't want to.

I am not an unhappy person. I just feel like there is such a thick barrier covering up that happiness that nobody can see it. I think sometimes I forget to see it myself.

It has been a year since writing this. And I have come back to the point where I started. It was up and down. And I thought it was fixed. But it is still very much there.

More than anything I wish I had somebody who could understand. I don't mean a boyfriend. I mean a genuine, real friend. Who I could talk to and who wouldn't judge. Who I could be my whole self with, and they wouldn't care. Who could help me by doing nothing at all except be there when I felt like spilling my guts {literally.} Why can't I find somebody like that? Why won't somebody just be there without me having to ask?

How is it that I am exactly what kind of friend I am looking for, but never enough to replace the void left by an actual physical presence sitting beside me?

You can hug yourself all day long. But in the end, there is still an empty space your arms can't reach, and the unending knowledge that all you're holding is your own broken heart.