I had a post all written out and ready to publish.
It was angry. Sniping. Moody. Ugly.
It was aimed at people who, by talking about me behind my back, hurt me. Deeply. People - alleged friends - who, if they'd thought for just a second, would have realized all they had to do was call me, ask me, "Hey, I've been noticing lately you haven't been yourself. Are you OK? Can I help?" and I would have answered honestly, "No. I'm really not OK."
Instead, they decided to gossip. To judge.
But I couldn't post it.
It was written to lash out and to hurt as I hurt. And that is so not me...at least, not the me I am when I am at my best. Not the me who rolls her eyes at the thought of posting her dirty laundry on Facebook. Not the me who is currently curled up crying with her hands held in front of her face saying, "Enough! I can't take any more blows than what I've received right now."
It was written by the me who has no energy to deflect stupidity, to shrug off petty bullshit, or ignore minor injustices. It was written by the me who has no ability to filter. It was written by the me who is deeply entrenched in depression, propelled by skyrocketing anxiety, shaken by daily panic attacks and agoraphobia, plagued by insomnia. The me who wakes up every day wondering if this is the day she's going to accidentally take herself and innocent bystanders out when she drives to work. The me who fears she'll never again be able to drive herself somewhere beyond the grocery store a few blocks away without worrying she'll faint and maim...or kill.
No. I'm not OK.
But that's OK.
There are others who've got my back and I'm no longer taking your call.