It’s quiet times like now when I get stuck in my head and don’t particularly want to be here. I try to keep myself so busy I can avoid really thinking. While living like that devalues me as a person, it also makes life less stressful and far more bearable.
It’s like my existence is split and I’m in two places. One is a fantasy. It’s a place where I want to exist, the place where most people think I do exist. A sort of embellishment of the other place I exist, a version that’s been all polished and given some shine.
The other place is my actual reality. It’s not a bad place, not by any means. I’m happy here, and I’m loved. But there’s this feeling here that doesn’t exist in the other place. It’s like a charge, a hum, a ripple of something sinister far out on the edges. It’s unseen, but its presence is sensed, it’s definitely there. I guess I know it’s a reminder that the safe and happy place where I really exist is not a gift. It’s not something that just is.
I know I have to work to sustain the balance. I have to hold it all together. It’s exhausting. I sometimes wonder if it’s worth all the effort. What happens if I let it tip? I know the answer. It’s happened before. I can’t do that again.