Put on a happy face…

I am known for my smile.

What people don’t know is that 75% of the time, that smile is a put on.



Growing up, my mother ingrained one thing in me, “People won’t like you if you are sad all the time.”

She’s right.

I’m around 99% positive that around 75% of my 700 some friends on facebook have blocked my posts. A few of them have deleted me.

That number is probably higher than I realize.

It devastates me.

But, I don’t feel bad for feeling the way I do… for voicing my pain. If anything, I am honest to a fault. I wish more people chose to live their lives that way. I think there would be less depression if everyone were more honest.

People only choose to show the greener side of their fence. It takes courage to show the weeds. (Jenism)

Most people don’t understand the WHY of things. I’m fairly sure I’m looked upon as an overdramatic drama queen when in reality, I’ve suffered 3 events that would rightfully cause anyone to at least contemplate suicide. I’ve got a killer case of PTSD. I often feel ashamed, as it’s not like I’ve been fighting a war, but I have been fighting for my own survival in many ways for far too long.

I often wonder why I’m still here. I’ve asked God to take me… many times. I hate when people say that they will pray for me. I feel like God disowned me a long time ago. Walking this earth is a punishment I have less and less strength for. The light at the end of the tunnel gets further and further away as the years pass. The only thing that keeps me going is Alexa and the guilt I feel I would saddle her with when I think about giving up.

But, of course, loving her has always been a bittersweet, double edged sword.

I have been through therapy. Multiple times. I live with depression because I was born wired for it. It’s more than sadness. It’s more than being tired or lazy. It’s a weariness that cannot be explained.

Yes, I live in a constant state of chaos. My living space is always littered with clothes, craft supplies, random school papers… stuff. I am a borderline hoarder. I just wish that others would understand that I’m not just a messy person. I’m not trying to be sloppy. I can’t just “clean it up.”

Hell, half the time, I can’t get out of bed.

I’m not lazy, I’m sick.

One thing that continues to be difficult is seeing others, particularly ones that have hurt me terribly, getting further and further ahead in the game of life. That gets compounded when I find out that friends of mine, who know of the hurt, the pain, the anguish and devastation that those people have caused, choose to continue to associate with them. I feel like my pain means nothing. Everything that was taken from me, everything that I endured at their hands, means nothing. It gets ignored and dismissed. If my friends were really my friends, wouldn’t all of that matter? I wish it were something stupid, like stealing a job or money issues, but it’s nowhere near trivial. It’s something I did try killing myself over (in the disguised form of anorexia)… something that SHOULD matter.

The more time that goes by, the more I am convinced that karma doesn’t exist.

Despite everything, I AM proud of myself. It’s the only other thing that keeps me going. Despite the fact that I would rather stay in bed than face the world, I get up, I go to work, I write papers, I take care of Alexa…

I try.

God knows that I try.

I just wish that trying would finally count for something.

For now, it’s just one more day…

~ by sillyauntjen on December 4, 2011.

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