When Anxiety tears you up inside


Anxiety: A feeling of worry, nervousness, or unease about something with an uncertain outcome. It’s a small word that is defined so simply, yet the feeling is anything but simple. The feeling is anything but small.

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Please, ask me how I am. Please, want to know the honest answer.

Please ask me how I am.

Ask me in a way that genuinely makes me feel like you want the truthful answer, I know you probably wont. I know it’s not because you don’t care about me. It isn’t because you don’t worry about me, but if you’re honest with yourself, it’s because you probably don’t want to deal with it.

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I’m lying when I tell you I’m fine

I’m not fine.

I am not fine, but even with tears running down my cheeks I will look you in the eyes and still insist I am fine. Why? Because I hate to admit that I need help, even when it is extremely obvious that I do.

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Making it 20+ years old as someone with depression


When I was a teenager I remember thinking to myself if I just reach my twenties I’ll be okay. This at a time when I was sectioned at 17 and was adamant I did not under any circumstance want to see my eighteenth birthday. However my answers always remained the same in psych evaluations ‘No I don’t see or hear people who aren’t here, I don’t want to harm anyone, I’m not suicidal’. The latter always feeling like a lie because in a way it was.

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