I Won't Call you Back and I'll Probably Cancel our Plans; I Love You but I Don't Want to Talk to You

Bree Blatchford

I’m broken. There is no direct origin to the time or reason as to why I am like this, it just showed up one day. The cracks slowly creeped into my soul, spreading like a disease to the different parts of my body, making me feel weak and exhausted. My heart has been slowly constricted by the most painful ropes, tightening each and every day so hard that it makes me clutch my chest in vain. It’s a breathlessness feeling, with a gnawing, persistent nature that eventually drives you to tears. Frustrated, ANGRY, pissed off, confused, hurt, sorrow-filled tears. They fall coldly onto your heated chest, the space that is fighting so desperately to give you air. To give you an inch more space in the vice around your heart. So that you don't feel like dying anymore. So that you don't wish for your demise just so that the pain and loss of breath will end. So that you wont be broken anymore. 


This is being written by a broken soul over a tear-stained keyboard. I am in this moment right now. I can do nothing but wait for the feeling, the overwhelming, blinding experience to pass, and hope that I can recover before the next wave. I am not just an advocate for mental health awareness, I am a walking billboard. A 5 foot 2 bleeding heart that leave a trail, that stains the path in which I walk. Counting the seconds, counting the minutes, counting the hours until I can feel the alleviation of pressure from my tiny body. I know this sounds scary, it sounds like something that someone isn't supposed to tell others about. The fact that I feel like dying many times a week is a taboo topic. I have been suppressing and ignoring the feeling for so long that I hoped I would feel the pain numb by this point. I know that society doesn't want me to be open with those feelings, society wants me to be grateful for my life and wants me to always look on the bright side. It doesn't want me to focus on death, or the fact that I feel the searing depression and anxiety is too much some times. To be a good advocate, I should only portray my shiny, rosy-colored self to the public and hide the messiness. Hide the messy moments that make up my depression. The messy moments ARE my depression. If I hide that, I am hiding it all. I would rather been portrayed as a hopeless wreck than a perfect example any day because that’s how I feel and what I am. I am MESSY.


I sob uncontrollably while completing simple tasks throughout the day because they seem so much bigger in my mind.


I curl up in a little ball on the couch, covered in couch pillows and blankets hoping that they block out the anxiety attacks that will no doubt visit me that day. 


I forget almost everything that is told to me the second it is because my mind is ALWAYS somewhere else. Not just a single other place, but my mind is in 100 different places at one time, mostly on whether I remembered to brush my teeth or if I fed the kitten before leaving the house etc, etc.


It’s always me, not you. I won’t call you back and I will probably cancel my plans with you because it is easier to stay home and sleep. It is easier in the sense that I wont have to worry about getting dressed (whether I look fat, do I wear pants or shorts, what is the other person wearing, I don't want to under or over dress), getting in my car (too anxious to start the car, terrified of the other drivers on the road, are they paying attention, do they see me, why won’t they let me over to the next lane), driving to your house (where should I park? Should I walk in on time or a little late? Will they mind or will they think I’m rude?), and ultimately, interacting with you for a prolonged period of time (laugh at the right moments, don't tense your jaw during your silent panic attacks, remember your manners, posture, be charming and interesting, make sure they aren't bored or lacking anything, don't let your crazy show, leave at a proper time). 


I love you, but I don't want to talk to you. In fact, I would rather not talk about anything tough or difficult ever. Because if simple tasks like going to the grocery store cause me to tense up in agony, how am I supposed to make it through a discussion about my future?


Depression is a selfish, lonely, heartbreaking illness. I need you, trust me I do, but most of the time it'll seem like I don't even want to talk to you. I am so inside of my own head that making it out to grab a coffee is the emotional equivalent of working an 8 hour day. I will go home and curl up into a tormented sleep, hoping to wake up tomorrow and be fixed. Hoping to wake up and find that all the broken parts of my body have been mended that my heart has been released from the bind that has constricted it for so long. Hoping to find that I can listen and remember and enjoy and laugh and learn without pain or fear or losing breath. Hoping to be better.

1 comment

  • <3 i get it


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