…And tried and tried a million times to write a blog post conveying what is going on inside my head.

For example: I’m paranoid that people are talking about me behind my back. Like EVERYONE AT WORK. They are all in on it. But some of them think they need to laugh harder at my jokes. Or some of them just don’t talk to me anymore. Maybe some of them are trying to ruin me.

Maybe they think I’m a thief.

I’m not I hate thieves.

Or also, I feel like I don’t have any friends anymore. Like, I’m someone’s friend when it’s convenient or the people who really want to be my friends are far away and just have closer friends.

Anyway I almost had a mental breakdown the other day

Maybe it was a mild one? I couldn’t not cry at the songs I was scream-singing to in the truck on the way home. Anyway it was happening. And now I’m starting to get depressed. It’s creeping up on me, like a leopard stalking it’s prey. If I sit and think too long about what’s happening around me I either panic/get anxious, get depressed, or get angry.

No matter what happens I know I would never kill myself

There is no question. I refuse to leave my child without a mother and my husband without a spouse (honestly this child wouldn’t sleep with him if I were desperate for sleep, I don’t know how he’d parent without me lol).

Plus I utterly fear death. And don’t say it’s because I haven’t gotten right with God, leave him outta this he knows what he did/didn’t do (I’m kidding). But the question of the unknown scares the ever loving

Out of me. So, I refuse to shuffle off this mortal coil until my child is grown and thriving on her own (or at least until she’s sleeping in her own bed).

I never imagined I would ever consider myself to be depressed or have anxiety until I was an adult.

Because when you’re an adult you see/read/encounter more adult things than you do as a kid or teen. And the bulk of humanity has been trying to normalize mental health issues over the last several years. For positive reasons. And I realized that I’ve had problems with anxiety and depression my whole life. I never recognized it because my family did not have the luxury of being able to afford to see a professional.

Not that my mom wouldn’t have made it work if she thought myself or my siblings needed it. And I can guarantee ALL of us need some kind of help, especially now.

My theory is that no one I know actually reads my posts.

Unless they involve free fiction. Or something that could benefit them. I’ve limited my Facebook of late, and I highly doubt a single person on my friends list, or even in my Facebook page, has even glanced at the titles of my blog posts (which post automatically to my page).

I could probably say whatever I wanted about anything here and no one I really know would even know. Something like

I killed a man.

Fictionally. Several actually.

Sorry. I didn’t have the nerve.

How about: I secretly believe no one actually likes me they just humor me for the hell of it and I think I’d rather someone look me in the eyes and say “I don’t like you all that well”. And walk away. I would cry a little but eventually I’d get over it. I’m an adult after all. Semi-functional, but an adult none-the-less.

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Thanks for reading!

-c

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Someone once said they think I’m bipolar. I didn’t have doubts.