sanguine-yet-ethereal

[sanguine-yet-ethereal]

I love feeling replaceable.

[sanguine-yet-ethereal]

I know things will pass and life won't always be bleak, but God damn... it feels so so bleak right now.

[sanguine-yet-ethereal]

If you cut me open you would find a heart made of hot tar.

It would hurt if you touched it, and it is fully tarnished.

All I have ever wanted was to be the light, but I am nothing more than a monster that belongs in the dark.

[sanguine-yet-ethereal]

God I wish therapy worked on me.

[sanguine-yet-ethereal]

My heart feels so empty, I can almost PHYSICALLY feel a certain kind of hollowness.

[sanguine-yet-ethereal]

I wish I wanted to live.

I wish I was different.

I wish I had even a moderately healthier brain.

I wish I could just fucking stop when I know I am spiraling, but I CAN'T.

[sanguine-yet-ethereal]

I wish I was different.

I wish I had even a moderately healthier brain.

I wish I could just fucking stop when I know I am spiraling, but I CAN'T.

[sanguine-yet-ethereal]

I'm so tired, so empty.

I have a husband. I feel he would be better off without me dragging him down. He would be sad, but he would move on. Find someone better.

I have an online friend who I know would be sad if I disappeared, but she has a rich social life and I know she would be okay eventually without me being part of it.

My cats are probably the only things keeping me here, and that realization is so deeply upsetting.

[sanguine-yet-ethereal]

I scream into the void begging to be heard, to be seen.

But I fear the void at the same time.

I fear what could come of it.

But perhaps the void is safer than anything I have ever known.

[sanguine-yet-ethereal]

I wanna become a whisper in the breeze.

[sanguine-yet-ethereal]

The way I want to scream about how badly I would rather be anywhere but living in this gods damned world but can't because I'm afraid of potential backlash from those I know.

Then, the duality of me WANTING them to know but still not wanting them to know.

I'm afraid to see just how little people actually give a fuck.

But my god, I would really rather not be alive.

[sanguine-yet-ethereal]

It is one thing for a person to say that they love you.

If they don't show you through actions, however, their words are meaningless.

[sanguine-yet-ethereal]

I feel so unloved. My heart is in shambles.

[sanguine-yet-ethereal]

On one hand I'm so thankful that I can scream all my unfiltered thoughts and feelings out into the void like this.

On the other, I wish I had someone I could really talk to.

Someone to hear me.

To see me.

Someone who I can listen to in turn.

To see.

I wish I had a true friend.

[sanguine-yet-ethereal]

I just wish I had a real friendship.

I thought I had one, but then I realized I couldn't talk to her anymore.

Not really.

When she asked how I was doing, I would be honest.

I thought we were close enough for that.

Really, why ask how someone is doing if you don't want the truth anyway?

Instead of acknowledging my struggles, she started suggesting therapy every time I implied that I wasn't doing okay.

Desite knowing that I can't afford it.

I'm sorry I'm a depressed bitch who can't afford therapy and medication.

She meant well, I know that.

To a degree, anyway.

I think really she just got tired of my depressed responses to her check ins.

I get it, I'm tired of me too.

I have to live with me 24/7.

All this to say that really, we should stop asking "how are you doing" if you don't want the cold, harsh truth.

[sanguine-yet-ethereal]

It's been said over and over again, in countless different ways.

I'll say it too.

Depression is truly just a beast.

A big, dark, unpredictable force.

Or perhaps it isn't so unpredictable.

Perhaps it becomes less and less difficult to anticipate the older I get.

The more minutes, hours, and days that I spend trapped in this state of stasis... the more predictable that wave of depression becomes.

What I would give for just a taste of true happiness.

[sanguine-yet-ethereal]

I have friends.

'Friends'.

People I message or talk with on occassion.

Some more than others.

I am not one persons favorite.

Part of me reads that sentence and thinks: I should be my own favorite.

But the must larger part of me knows that I could never be my own favorite, I don't even like myself.

I am mean, I am selfish, I am lazy, and tired.

I am no good.

No wonder I am never first.