Sometimes I feel like a pretender. I put on make up and smile, I act professional. It all feels perfectly natural. I begin to wonder how I got into the state I was in the other day, that other time, the time before that. Am I lying to the doctor? Myself? Am I myself convinced? Could I really care so little about my family as to tell such a big lie that I am carried away with it? Am I just scared of bearing this title now it’s finally here?
Do I think too much? Probably. But I do feel all these things, so they count.
Perhaps I like the drama.
I have gotten myself into this unbearable state of mind, and yet I am anxious to part with it. What if I get fixed, and never feel enough angst even to write again? What shall I do then, if I refuse help? Do I build my life around the sadness, give it room to breathe, to bloom?
My mother told me not to get carried away with the highs or the lows, to channel my emotions and realise that they are not me; they simply pass through me.
Today was a good day. Tomorrow will be new.