And you know why? No one who knows me would believe it was written by me. And I’d never want them to know about it either. Those that know me think I’m happy. That I smile all the time. Am fun. Laid back. Never stressed. A social butterfly, extremely outgoing. Always. So. Fucking. Happy. At work, every phone call sounds like I’m talking to an old friend. Bad news never gets me down. My workload never overwhelms me. Bad days? They don’t happen to me. I wake up positive and bubbly and stay that way until bed time. A great mom who loves her girls. A fiercely independent woman who never looks for love.
They wouldn’t believe me if I told them I have the most extreme case of social anxiety that forces me to take a shot or down a quick glass of wine before I go anywhere, even just to dinner with a friend. What are we supposed to talk about? I don’t have anything to say. What if they ask about this, or that, or if I can’t be witty and entertaining. What the hell am I supposed to talk about ::gulp::?!
They’d say I was lying if I told them I second guess everything I do. EVERYTHING. They would call my bluff if I told them I can’t bear to speak to anyone in my house anymore. Or that I feel incapable of being loved. Or that I feel like a terrible mom. Or that I’ve slept with more men than they could fathom just trying to find my replacement father-figure. Or that I hate the weekends because it amplifies how alone I feel. Or that I have a million journals that I’ve started and stopped bc I can’t actually tell anyone how I feel about life? How I would rather hide under my blanket than to actually take an active role in anything?
I’m not suicidal. Not even close. Am I depressed? Probably. I have a journal entry from just a couple months ago that would make this one sound like it was written by a stranger. So I know this is temporary. I also know this will probably happen again.
Bottom line is, no one knows about this blog. I hope they never do. I never want to be seen as weak. And wow, do I sound pathetic right now.