Written December 8th 2018 by Winter Burnett
Notifications? Ah. Just one. Good though.
Obsession? It’s not as bad as some though.
I’m not alcoholic. I don’t do drugs.
It’s not the same to OD on technology.
I have other problems. deeper.
This is just a symptom of something beyond my control.
Do any of us really have control?
Searching to recharge. It’s not as simple for me.
No universal plug. No standard volts.
I don’t just take electricity.
It’s hard work to rest.
It’s difficult to step back, stop, and breathe.
The things I need a break from are the things sustaining me.
An endless cycle of repetition.
Spirals down. Spirals within to myself.
A brief world of escape.
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Showing the authentic self that I formed and that I like.
The quirky silly dramatic purple lipstick wearing person.
I don’t show you the crying in my car or alone walking my dog at night.
Pacing in my tiny room when I have too much energy.
The useless shit I buy because I need it in the moment.
The binge eating away the emotions I don’t want.
The hours I keep myself awake feeling sad.
The over sexualized thoughts that come whenever they feel like.
Shortness of breath like an asthma attack all invented by the anxieties of my head.
The days I literally put “get out of bed, leave room, use bathroom” as individual checks on my todo list.
It’s much too much to share.
Too dark of a secret to keep.
I share bits with some and bits with others.
I don’t exist as fully human to any one person.
I’m layers of fake personalities.
Layers of funny and sad stories.
Layers of certain emotions and circumstances.
And when I start to show the real me
And you leave.
You don’t even have to really leave.
You can still be there and still care.
You can still love me and hold my hand.
You can still be physically present in my life.
But there are days my anxieties take up all room inside my head.
The cloud of depression is less like a dense fog and more like volcano smoke and ash suffocating me.
Hypomania leaves no room for anyone but myself. I’m pretty awesome after all.
Here we are.
Scrolling as unhealthy obsession.
A coping mechanism.
All I have for sanity.
Covering the hole that would show what is really left of me.
Hint: I’m worn out and empty.