Dear Diary, I am not okay.

As a foreword, I must warn you that this blog post is very poorly executed and written in the midst of a mental breakdown. All the editing in the world could not save this piece from the emotional banter you’re about to witness.

Depression is funny.

Depression in the mind of a writer is funny.

I often try to come up with coping mechanisms, but somehow everything besides writing out my feelings seems impractical — though it is actually quite the opposite.

Writing is therapeutic, yet in actuality a terrible way to handle your emotions. Why? When your only sense of freedom from your fucked up mind is by throwing up cliches into a poem and then going back to pretending everything is okay, well…..you understand where I’m going with this.

I rely too much on my image. What I mean is: I am so good at wearing the mask.

I am bubbly, charismatic, optimistic, and always making sure everyone around me is okay. But who makes sure I’m okay?

I certainly don’t.

Sometimes I find myself too deep behind the facade that I practically convince myself that I am okay, despite what I’m really trying to hide.

Then I come home and sit here on my laptop and it all kind of bubbles over.

I told myself I was going to blog more on my site — to be more raw and authentic to my readers. So I guess writing out a “Dear Diary” formatted post is more vulnerable than finding poetic ways to describe self harm.

So:

Dear Diary,

I am not okay.