Social Media Does Not Cure Depression

The funny thing about social media is how it allows you to be both completely transparent and remarkably full of shit simultaneously.

I blog about life (in general) and my life (occasionally and specifically). I write the things I cannot stand to hold in any longer without hope that someone else will read them or understand them. I don’t care if you agree them. I don’t even particularly care if you understand.

But I need you to read them. And I need you to try and understand.

If you knew what a hot mess I really am, you would leave me. Hate me. Leave this page, and pity me, shame me.

I feel ashamed now, even thinking me.

If you knew how hard it was for me to get out of bed every morning, you would consider me a miracle.

If you knew how abysmal my finances were, you would tell me to get a job.

If you had to wear my skin, keep my secrets, bear my burdens, you would jump.

Most days the ledge is long, the horizon is far, and the shoreline within sight.

But today I am sinking, eyes half filled with tears I have forgotten how to spill. The lies I tell myself to keep going are harder to hear today.

I would unburden myself with these small truths, but, the truth is, they are not mine to tell.

My lie is constructed and interconnected with others like a house of cards built atop a jenga game. One false step and we will all come crashing down.

My secrets are not 1600 Pennsylvania avenue secure, they are 1655 Cumberland insecurities. I could tell you, but then I would have to kill myself.

I can tell you this:

Sometimes when you see me and I have bags under my eyes, it’s because I spent the night crying. I have two periods a month and they suck ass.

I have severe anxiety issues that make it hard for me to eat.

I know a lot of people, but don’t have a lot of friends.

I live below the poverty level.

Where does depression hurt? Every-fucking-where.