I Confess.

I confess. I have sat in this hospital bed all day sulking. Feeling alone, feeling depressed, feeling angry.

I confess. I hate physical therapy. I hate being taught to walk up a stairwell again like I’m a child learning for the first time. I hate feeling pity.

I confess. I don’t want to stand tall and be strong today. I don’t feel like getting out of bed. I don’t feel like moving.

I confess. My depression comes in waves, as my favorite spoken word poem states “One day it’s as small as a firefly in the palm of a bear The next it’s the bear.” Today was a bear day.

I confess. This cold frail darkroom has given me Stockholm syndrome. I lie awake staring at the TV or watching comfort movies while my legs feel nailed to the bed. Part of me wants to leave so badly, the other isn’t ready to return to the world again. Depression makes me want to sink into the bed and suddenly disappear, anxiety nails my legs down whispering worries in my ear of being on my own again. This part of me is too embarrassed to convey to anybody how I feel, too scared they will find me crazy because they would probably never understand.

I confess. The dark days consume me. I watch movies like the fault in our stars or read the book repeatedly to not feel alone. All because I remember myself as a child watching it in the movie theater silently crying because I watched the girls my age admire Hazel Grace. I watched them see her as a person and love her qualities. I watched them push for her to be loved and believe she deserves it just as much as anyone else. I watched them see her as more than someone who’s sick. Find her smart, pretty, funny. I watched them be nothing short of accepting, and I thought to myself that maybe one day they would do the same for me.

I confess. Everyone finds me strong, they tell me my strength is amazing and that they aspire to have my optimism and resilience. So when I’m weak, I battle alone. For the sake of my loved ones, I don’t want to ruin that picture for them. It’s easier for them to cope thinking I cope well, thinking my strength doesn’t waver.

I confess. On the dark days, I am sad about a countless amount of things. On the dark days, I cuss out the man upstairs if he’s truly there listening. On the dark days, I cry a lot. On the dark days, I would do anything to not have this particular life.

I confess, to whom it may concern. I confess, if anyone is listening.

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