TalkBlog

I enjoy reading, but I struggle with writing. Writing feels conflicting because it asks me to be honest in ways I am not always ready for. Some of the things I write embarrass me. I think they expose thoughts I would rather keep hidden. And I think writing makes them permanent; this is because I worry too much. I imagine someone reading them someday and being shocked by how dark and twisted parts of me can sound. I worry about that future reader.  I worry about myself. I am going through what feels like one of the hardest things I have ever done. Close people know I am struggling, but they do not know the full extent of it. They can see that I am not butterflies and rainbows, but they do not know how much of my joy is performed. I smile and hope that one day I will grow into the happiness I am pretending to feel. There was a time not long ago when I almost slipped into a deep depressive episode. I could feel myself descending, very fast, like I was in quicksand. I wanted to hold on...