The engaged girl's eyelids droop with black goo, a flat smile taped on her mouth. She leans against her boy and determinedly suppresses her building scream of frustration as well-meaning women's words entrap her in a room of polite, civilized people. Conclusion: The only thing worse than a wedding shower is planning one. #ohlookmylegnomnomnom
There’s a little language, but I still plead with you to read this article, if only to understand me, yourself, or other people with mental illness better. Also, this bit is so true for me:
“So I sit as still as possible and I desperately hope that my stillness doesn’t make it seem like I don’t want to be touched.
I do want to be touched.
I won’t tell you that.”
When I hear your footsteps approaching me in the dark, what you don’t know is that I’m quietly muttering under my breath, “Please, please don’t be angry.”
I hide the bite marks on my hand. I keep my face hidden under the hood of my coat. I try to will myself into disappearance.
I fucked everything up.
I’m bracing myself for impact.
I didn’t want to hurt anyone.
You don’t remind me what I should or shouldn’t have done. You don’t remark on the inconvenience of it all. You don’t tell me, through clenched teeth, that I should know better by now.
You both sit down next to me – someone asks me if I’m okay, someone else puts an arm around me. And while I don’t move or respond to that touch, it takes everything in me not to.
In that moment, I am afraid for you to know how much…
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