I have a cruel mind

and sooner or later, someone is going to find out that I am a bad person

TW: If you are currently experiencing symptoms of depression, mood change, anxiety, or otherwise, and are without outside support, the following content could be triggering or difficult to read <3

I’m never sure when exactly it will happen, but it always happens.

Only this time, I wasn’t anticipating it.

In fact, I had almost forgotten what it felt like. Almost.

It’s a story you’ve likely heard before, so I won’t bother you with the details. You know, the part where I’m a young woman who is learning and yearning for more. More than she can carry.

So instead, I bring my hands to my armpits and wipe away the sweat that stinks and drips and drips and sticks to my ribcage.

So instead, I press my face into a pillow and scream and scream, staining it with tears and snot and a rage that moves through me like the ocean’s tide.

I’ve never written like this before, or maybe I have, I don’t remember. All I can remember is the sensation of being swallowed whole and emerging as someone sharp and angry and impatient and sad, very sad.

And I don’t want to be so afraid of feeling whatever it’s asking me to feel, but I am.

I’m afraid of it. Afraid of the way it has me remembering the part of the story that I don’t like to share. The part of the story that makes me into someone I don’t want to be around.

The cruelest part of my mind tells me that she is untruthful and unkind. That she does not care for others. That she is selfish and cold. That sooner or later, someone is going to find out. Someone is going to find out that she is a bad person. That I am a bad person.

And so I listen and go: yes yes, ok, hold on a sec while I delete everything I’ve ever shared or written, breakup with all my friends, and kiss my dog goodbye, sweeping away any last part of me that believed that I could.

Everything feels far away. Joy, ambition, patience. It makes me angry that I cannot reach them and maybe that’s why I sweat the way I do. Maybe that’s why I rage the way I do—because I know it’s there, just right over there, barely out of reach. But when I try to reach for it. When I stack up boxes and chairs and old suitcases and stand on the tips of my toes to try and reach for it, I slip and fall.

I am certain that writing this and sharing this, to send something unedited, unkind, and possibly cruel, makes absolutely no sense.

But maybe that’s what I’m looking for: something different. Something that’s nonlinear. Something that both my cruel mind and my own mind can agree upon: writing is good. Writing helps. Writing brings you back to yourself.

With love,
Chloe

PS. I’m not sure if this is necessary to say, but just in case: I am safe and supported in my moving through this particular mood (a mood that I am now very familiar with), and am only curious to see what happens when I work with my cruel mind, not against. I’ll report back with any findings.