I’ve started writing this blog at least four times. I’ve erased what I wrote, started again, erased, started again, erased- started again. Sometimes, that’s how I feel my life goes. Stop, start over. Stop, start over. Stop, start over, and for the first time- it’s beginning to be too much. I know I am in one of my depressive episodes, being someone that handles living with PTSD, because I know it is only in these moments that I can’t handle much. Someone could say hi the wrong way and I’d break down. No one would ever see it, of course. Why in the world would I let anyone see this soft side of me? This weak side of me? This ugly side of me? Why, in the world, would I ever open up to someone to would end up walking away anyway?

That’s the biggest complaint I get. “You are a master at masking your emotions.” How many times have I heard that? I can’t even tell you. “You don’t open up.” Another good one. Duh. Of course I don’t. No one wants to see this. For someone who is as open as I am, sharing my stories with the world, I sure am walled up pretty tight. Why? Probably because anytime I try to, I am told to not worry so much, to not be in my head, to just get up and do what I have to do, as if I am not already doing that. 

“Oh. Ok. Yea- you’re right. I’ll handle it. I got this.” My signature recoil. The minute you hear that come out of my mouth is the minute you will never get a glimpse at my vulnerability again. Maybe it’s an impulsive move, but when you tell someone to open up, they do, and you shut them down, they prob won’t do it again. Take me, for instance: Exhibit A.

Exhibit A has been handling her own shit for as long as she can remember. Exhibit A doesn’t necessarily need someone by her side because she has been handling her own shit for as long as she can rememeber. Exhibit A will continue to handle her own shit until someone finally, genuinely asks her if she is ok. Her answer will always be yes. She will always be ok. She will appear to be ok even when she’s not, because there is no reason for someone who does not truly care to know anything other than she is just fine.

Today, however, I am not ok. I wasn’t ok yesterday. Hopefully I’ll be ok tomorrow. I still got up, smiled, did the things I enjoyed, functioned just fine, but even on this beautiful, sunny, fall day, a day that should bring happiness, I cried.

And that’s ok. For now.

But not ok for tomorrow.

Exhibit A will be ok tomorrow. And maybe one day, Exhibit A will find someone who truly cares if she is.