The Trouble With Trixie


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My brain is broken.

I wrote this post a year ago, in March 2014, but have not released it until today. I don’t know who will see it, and I suppose it doesn’t matter. There will be more to come.


Some days, I’m almost okay. Most days, though, I spend at war with myself, battling the demons that live within my mind. We all have them, I know. I can’t say that mine are any easier or more difficult than anyone else’s. It’s all relative, anyway; all just based on perspective. What I can say is that I have felt afraid, ashamed, and alone in my battles for… well, almost forever.

I have both anxiety and depression, and have struggled with both for most of my adult life. The depression has had a good grip on me for 18 months or so now, since at least October 2013, and the last 6 months have been particularly bad.

All I want is to be normal, and it’s a full time job just pretending to be. Sometimes I can’t do it. I just can’t. In the last year, I’ve had to work really hard to keep it together. Sometimes, I’m simply not able to.

My interactions with others, regardless of who they may be – friends, family, strangers – leave me feeling stupid, worthless, and that I have nothing to contribute. When I do try to be social, I don’t feel heard and/or the reaction that I see and hear reflected back to me is that people just want me to shut up and go away. So I try to seclude myself as much as possible; I try not to participate in things, try not to say anything to anyone, I just want to withdraw, curl up, cry, and wither away.

Logically, I know what I’m feeling isn’t true. I know it’s not real. But there is a massive disconnect between what I know logically and what I feel emotionally. No amount of telling myself how UN-true it is helps alleviate the devastating, terribly cruel things that I think and feel.

Then, of course, I beat myself up because I’m being such an idiot to let myself feel that way. …Right?

For years, I have been fantastic at looking and pretending I’m okay. An absolute pro. That is, until I have to start talking about how I feel, and then I come apart at the seams, unraveling, and all the Ugly squirms out and spills all over the floor, like Oogie Boogie in Nightmare Before Christmas. Now, though, my Ugly is everywhere, splattered like vomit, getting all over everything, my shoes, my clothes, my hair, and its too late – it is just too late – there’s just too much leaking out at this point for me to ever hope to keep it cleaned up or even try to pretend it was an accident.

It’s too much, it’s too late, and I’m too broken.

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