Seriously. I think it's time. This friends with benefits thing we had happening? It was fun, very fun. But the other day, near the end of my suicidal meltdown (during which my mother kept watch over me in a hotel room near school, because I didn't trust myself to be alone) I got a notification that you were in a relationship with some chick on Facebook. It turned out to be a joke, but I remember thinking something strange when I crashed into bed after shutting off my computer.

I'm free.

And that's why we can't be together. Because if that's how I've really felt all along, then we have a serious problem. You're a shackle. Or maybe this is the post-meltdown adrenaline talking.

So babe, I'm gonna leave you when the summer comes along. There will be an ocean between us for seven weeks. It will be clean that way.

some new medication. I'd been off meds for a few months, though I only took them sporadically for about a year before that. Yeah, I'm so responsible and stuff. Anyway, I started taking it four days ago as I was coasting on the steep side of a downward spiral. I can tell that the medication has tempered it somewhat, but I'm still in a low mood.

I find that my depression gets much worse late at night, when I'm just thinking. I suppose that's pretty common-I'm no longer distracted by my hectic life, so the symptoms worsen. But I've been super bummed tonight for a reason that crops up in my mind every now and then. Technically it's two reasons, but they both have to do with friendships and handling them.

1) I wish I could tell my friends that I'm depressed/have an anxiety disorder. 

Let me preface this by saying that I have a problem. I feel a compulsive need to pour my soul out to people, even though I usually get crushed when I recieve an inadequate response. I'm completely aware that this is narcissistic and self-harming, but I have such a great urge to explain my inner demons-maybe because I "love" the shock value, or maybe because I'm looking for another tormented soul. I put "love" in quotes up there for a reason-I think I love the shock value, until I tell the person and they're shocked and I end up feeling like a freak. So rationally I understand that this desire is unhealthy and usually ends with misunderstanding. Only one person has given me a "sufficient" response: she was confused, because she was slightly shocked (she didn't notice my symptoms) but still not entirely taken aback (In hindsight I'd been acting funny for a while, she said.) She then shared the story of her own depression. We're closer than ever, and I consider her my best friend. She's also the sweetest person on this planet.

But will the others understand? Will my tight knit pod of buddies be rattled by my revelation? Hopefully a little-just enough to whet my whistle and ease the desire for shock value. But I just want somebody to understand! That's what it comes down to. I want people to see me for me, even if "me" is kind of messed up. 

2) How have my friends NOT noticed anything is wrong?

Here's a secret, since I'm pouring my soul out: I pride myself on my ability to act in everyday situations. I'm a marvelous actress (not on the stage, though-go figure.) People seem to think I'm perfectly happy and well-adjusted. They tell me I'm so strong, so free, so brave. In some respects, I am. I've come far in spite of my limitations and my disease(s). But they're missing a whole other side-my fear, my angst, my crippling anxiety. They don't see it because I hide it so well around them. I'm sure it's obvious, if you look closely enough, that something about me is "off," that my actions are occasionally forced. 

How do they not see it? There's three possibilities here.

1) They aren't oblivious, I'm just fabulous at hiding.

2) They are oblivious, but that implies that they don't care enough about me to notice. We'd have ourselves a problem.

3) They aren't oblivious, they just don't want to bring it up.

#1 and #3 would be ideal. I have the nagging feeling that #2 is true, though.

Sometimes I feel like I'm going to up and explode, like there's a pressure bomb in my insides that's going to burst one day. I feel confined by my body, plagued by an omnipresent itch, never satisfied.