I don’t know

I was finally starting to climb out of my depression, I thought, when this last thing hit.

When my mom showed up with her friend, my molester’s mother, at my work, last week.

I was honestly starting to feel better, I thought. I was starting to sing along with the radio again, to accomplish household chores, to make plans for outings (a big thing for me, if you know me).

And then, Monday happened, and the shit hit the fan.

I know myself, fairly well.

And to be honest, to be really, brutally, honest?

I’m not in a good place.

I’m really not.

I need help, but I won’t ask for it.

I can’t.

My brain won’t let me, because of what happened all those years ago.

Asking for help lets people hurt you.

It hands them the knife and bares your back.

Knowing myself, I will actually refuse help if it’s offered.

I know this.

Because I won’t hand anyone that knife.

I’ve been stabbed so, so many times, by people I thought cared about me.

I can’t do it anymore.

Won’t.

People leave.

It’s what they do.

Let them.

Funny thing…

I had a dream about a dead friend last night. He was so dear to me, and I miss him. I used to call him “little brother”, even though he towered over me.

I’m rambling, I know.

But it’s so dark inside my head, and that’s where the light goes.

No one sees it at work, you know. They all think I’m fine, because I wear the mask. I joke, I smile, I keep to myself…mostly. I’m quiet most of the time at work, anyway, so it’s not a stretch, anymore. They don’t know.

They don’t care.

It’s fine.

I actually googled therapists the other day, but didn’t call any of them.

With everything else…I just…

I don’t know.

Is it worth it, anymore?

When there’s nothing to look forward to.