there’s a skeleton in my closet. and maybe it’s real. or maybe it’s all fucking made of plastic.
maybe i throw money at my problems. because i don’t know what else to do about it. and maybe some day, i will truly be able to heal, but right now, i’m mostly just… tired. and confused.
there’s a skeleton in my closet, marrow replaced by crumpled sheets of paper. deals with the devil i wish i’d never made. a thousand moments of my life i should just fucking through away.
but i don’t. i can’t. not… today.
there’s a skeleton in my closet. and sometimes, it watches me. brushes the hair off my cheeks; and tucks me into bed at night. one time, it even got me a bouquet…
and i guess that’s something. a broken piece of myself that maybe, just maybe, i’ll be able to heal someday.
I am the queen of denial.
I remember, when I was eleven, I had this whole breakdown over the summer where my anxiety got so bad I was having trouble functioning as a basic human being. And there was one specific moment, when I decided that positive affirmations and exposure and all the other things I was at the time reading about in self-help books and watching videos about online–none of it was working. And so I simply decided that in that moment, I was going to do exactly what a normal, functional version of myself would do until I was able to get my mind off my never-ending intrusive thoughts.
This is similar to a concept I would later learn about in therapy, which my wonderful therapist described to me as opposite action–essentially the idea of doing the exact opposite of what your anxiety wants you to do in moments of panic. Except rather than doing this thing for you, you’re doing it… for someone else, in a twisted way; trying desperately to fit into what society expects you to be.
Shoving all these worries and fears into a little closet in the back of your mind.
I tell myself I’ll unpack it, someday. But honestly, when it comes down to it… will I? Because as lovely as that sounds to say, I don’t have a therapist. I don’t really have many people at all, when it comes down to it. I have a life, and a job, and deadlines to stay on top of; always something to distract me from facing my issues. And I’m a coward. And I’m not ready. At least I’m at the point of acknowledging that, though–I mean, I guess that’s progress?
Lots of love,