if and when

After two months of searching, two months of horrible anxiety, horrible stress, I got a new job.

It's a good job. Exactly what I was hoping to find. My bosses seem great. I think I'll be good at it. It's a significant pay raise. It's even closer to my house than my old job. I could go on and on.

For almost exactly one day, I was relieved. I was giddy. Having that weight off my shoulders, I felt like I could breathe again.

But the weight didn't really go away. It just shifted.

I woke up the next day to realize that it was still there. I still have to fight the anxiety driven panic that claws it's way beneath my skin. I'm still drowning, sinking beneath the waves.

I am exhausted.

My life, my entire being, is such a lie. How would I even begin to unravel the mess? I have devoted my life, my entire life, to appearing to be a normal, well-adjusted person. I am so good at this act, that I have trapped myself in it. How do I ask for help when I can't get the words past my lips? How do I confess when the truth would look like such a ridiculous lie? 

...

I was at the library, returning a book after work. Outside it was grey and spitting a miserable attempt at rain. The librarian was taking his time, but he was old and I didn't mind. I stood there like a ghost, watching him. I'd cried the entire drive from work to the library, silent tears just rolling down my face and dripping off my chin. But I knew he couldn't tell. I'd looked in the mirror before coming inside. My makeup hadn't even smeared. And I suddenly just felt so heavy. My body felt like it was slowly turning to stone. I kept expecting the floor to crack beneath my feet and swallow me whole. 

I could feel the misery pouring off of me in waves, like miniature tsunamis. He didn't look at me. I could feel the coldness creeping down my chest, across my stomach, down my legs, and across the floor. He didn't notice a thing. I could feel the burning pain in my swollen eyes, the lump in my throat. 

What did he see?

Just a girl.

I am invisible.

...

I am a countdown to the day that I snap.

I think about killing myself as casually as other people consider their dinner options. 

I should stop at the store and get some more dish soap. Oh, and maybe when I get home I'll finally slit my wrists.

I don't even feel anything. 

I tell myself that I'll get help IF and WHEN.

IF and WHEN I actually ever attempt to kill myself. 

IF and WHEN I ever drop below 90 lbs. 

(HA. I'm funny.)

IF and WHEN I ever have a panic attack that puts me in the hospital.

I am so tired.

I'm sorry that I am so down all the time. The funny thing is that my real life and what I write would look like black and white if you ever saw both sides. I should have gone into acting. The truth is, I spend all of my energy trying to wear the mask I've created for myself. I have to work so hard all day long to look normal. To seem ok. To appear happy. And it weighs on me. It drags on me. And all the things I wish I could say crowd my chest and choke me until I write and write and write and pour it all out, all the black ash, the sticky sweet tar, the poison that I willingly swallow.

"Help me." I wish I could just say it. "Please help me. I'm not ok."