(no subject)
The thing is. The thing is
is that I'm not unhappy. I'm not depressed. I don't cut myself or burn myself, I don't cry for hours on end, I'm not struck by crippling anxiety or panic attacks. I function well. I sleep less than is healthy, some nights I don't sleep at all. I still do my work and get to school on time, and pull good grades.
I have a house. I have a family. I have friends.
But I'm not happy. I don't know if happiness is the state of being not being unhappy, or if being happy is something unto itself; if birds sing and do housework, or the sun shines brighter or music is sweeter. If that is being happy, then I have never been happy.
If being happy is a simple contentment in your life, then I have never been happy.
If being happy is being in love, then I have never been happy.
If being happy is reflecting your innerself onto your body, the person you present yourself as, then I have never been happy.
I have been these things: sad, angry, embarrassed, excited, regretful, confused, jubilant, tearful, hilarious.
I have been so overtaken with humor that I was crying from laughter.
I have been so overwhelmed with sadness that I was crying underneath a blanket, my peers surrounding me, oblivious.
I wonder if I'm the only one of us that feels so deeply. I have never seen some of those people show a depth of emotion like that. I have never seen them keel over because their stomach hurt so badly from loneliness, or stare into space because you've just realized that real life is fucking terrifying and facing it by yourself? Crippling.
I wonder if any of my "real" friends, the ones I see everyday, the ones who "know" me, the ones who have touched me and hugged me and seen me cry, I wonder if they have ever seen me stare down at a plate of food and wonder if it was loneliness that made me not want to eat.
I wonder if they've ever really gave a damn, if their concern was genuine concern, if they can turn their back when I'm away and not speak to me for three weeks.
I wonder if counting calories, estimating, budgeting, measuring waistlines and hiplines and bustlines, and then writing it down into a journal your sister bought for you, bought out of love, with a slice of cake, I wonder if that is anorexia. I wonder if a tight size seven will be enough to remind me that I don't give a shit if it's Easter, chocolate is chocolate is chocolate, and is still fattening.
I wonder if a loose size five will be enough for me if (when when please god let it be when) I get there, and if I can get there without raised eyebrows.
I wonder at how I can not eat for three days and not even feel it by the end of the first, I wonder if my mom will not notice again, I wonder if I can come up with more lies, I wonder if when I get my own house, my own house with a fridge and an oven and microwave, I wonder if it will be empty. I wonder if I hope it will be empty, or if I dread it.
I wonder at the roundness of my stomach, the width of my thighs. I wonder if anyone would give a shit, if they were less. I wonder if the affection is all fake and saccharine, like it feels, or if my mind is just screwing with me. I wonder if I can't trust my mind, what exactly can I trust.
But mostly. Mostly, I wonder at how tired I am, all the time.