“It’s tough to always be that vulnerable”
By Dan Vega
Fiction. Based on a True Pain Hidden.
This journal entry is inspired by true events. Some of the characters, names, businesses, incidents, and certain locations and events have been fictionalized for dramatic purposes. Any similarity to the name, character or history of any person is entirely coincidental and unintentional.
It takes a lot for me to talk, especially about things that hurt. Because the last time I expressed how I was really feeling, and I got laughed at. I exposed everything and they belittled me. It was humiliating and mortifying. I felt so much shame and regret. Ever since, I’ve stayed shut. It doesn’t make me feel better, not in the least, but it feels worse being laughed at.
The last time I ignored everyone and everything for a week. No one noticed. Well, someone did. But all they said is, “It’s just a funk, it’ll pass,” and then continued to ignore me. It didn’t pass, or maybe it did? Because I go out, I socialize, but I just feel empty inside, like something is not right. Something is not clicking inside of me. It’s like I’m a puzzle, but the pieces have changed shapes, some have even gone missing. I make believe it passed, because the ‘funk’ has become a lifestyle.
The last time I told my best friend that I thought I was depressed she looked at me like I was crazy. “Why would you be depressed?” she laughed. She was right. Why would I be depressed? My life hasn’t been traumatic, so why do I feel so unbearably sad. Why do I feel like my body is moving but my brain is in a haze?
The last time I told my mother that I wanted to cut myself, she looked at me with her eyes opened so wide they could’ve popped right out. She didn’t say anything, she just looked at me with a horrific expression. I told her it was a joke and started laughing nervously, and she laughed too and kept going. Everything inside and outside of me trembled with guilt and exasperation. I didn’t want her to react like that, but I don’t want to feel like this either. I wanted her to take some action, but I guess she’s just as blindsided by this overwhelming emotion as I am.
The last time I wrote down how I truly felt, without censoring anything, I broke down. Everything was pouring out of me, every single word was coming out of me and I couldn’t stop it. They just kept coming and coming and coming. How do I stop this? My hand became numb from how much I wrote, but I still couldn’t stop. I needed to get it all out because I didn’t know when I would be able to write that way again. It felt so good yet so miserable. It was the first time I was able to express myself freely.
I wrote and I wrote, and I continue to write. And it still doesn’t get better.