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I’m trying. I’m trying so hard to not drown. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but today I was happy. Today I am happy. And that’s worthy of being written down.
Maybe parents were still kids with old, tired hearts, and every time they beat, they cracked a little more.
The whole being sad thing is exhausting. I’m tired. All the time. Have you ever been so young but felt so old? That’s the kind of tired I am. I’m the ninety-years-old kind of tired, the kind of tired where everything aches right down to my bones.
That was the thing about anxiety and depression: there was nothing logical about it. When my brain started to spin the webs of self-doubts, it spun fast, spinning me round and round into its webs of lies.
“Oh, honey…we’re all a little broken. If you think anyone in this world doesn’t have cracks, scars, and a story, then you’re not looking close enough. We weren’t brought into this world to be perfect; we were brought here to be human. To live. To feel. To hurt. To love. To cry. To exist. And with that, comes a few broken parts. You don’t have to be perfect to love or be loved. You just have to be brave enough to show the world your scars and call them beautiful.”
