and in the photo album, it all looks so perfect. doesn’t it? hallmark smiles, and christmas card messages, and maybe if we keep going at this we can just pretend there’s nothing off about it.
in the photo album, i do not have mental illness. i am just a smiling little girl, with freckles on her cheeks, and the wind in her hair, and in the end, i am nothing more than a pretty face. sitting there.
in the photo album, maybe i am just being stupid. and dramatic. but i still can’t help but feel the fault lines wracking through me, except… maybe this isn’t really me. maybe this brain was never mine, and maybe i am out of place inside this body.
maybe i made it all up. maybe i don’t remember it correctly, because if i was so miserable how can i look so happy?
I went through all my old childhood pictures and videos and stuff on my laptop a couple days ago, and kind of broke down a little afterward. Not in a loud way. It just triggered this chain of denial inside me–like, I’m just lying, I don’t really have anxiety. I guess this was what I wrote to at least attempt to deal with those feelings.