You see the marks, you know what’s happening. I don’t know if you’ve admitted it to yourself that I’m actually doing that to myself, but subconsciously you know. I don’t hide what I’m feeling when we look each other in the eyes and you question the evidence.
I just realized that I’ve never actually lied about it either. I never said I didn’t cause those marks on my arm when you found them, I just looked at you and said, “It’s been there for a week now, surprised you didn’t see it earlier.”
You see me when it starts. We’ll be riding down the road, or walking hand in hand, or just sitting there together. I’ll start to space out, I forget to smile, I get defensive over my stuff and start to hide. You try to make me laugh. You’ll poke me, and when I don’t respond I see the look you get. Like when a child’s favorite toy was lost and they want to do anything to get it back, but nothing is working. you ask me what’s wrong. you try to get me to talk. Eventually I force a smile so you won’t worry. I’ll try to talk or turn on the radio.
You’ve mentioned depression to me before. But I wouldn’t talk about it. I don’t want you to know that I’m that weak. I want to be mentally strong, because I’m physically weak. you know how much I hate being weak, how much I hate everyone doing things for me. I don’t want you to see me when I cry, or when I have a panic attack, or when I get depressed. I won’t even write this confession somewhere you can read it. Because I’m ashamed.
You try everything you can to help me. You respect my wishes to not talk about it. I know I’m hurting you, and I’m sorry. Sorry. I seem to be saying that word a lot. I wish I could make it up to you. I wish I wasn’t such a terrible girlfriend. I wish I could just be happy.
I love you, thank you for everything.