An Open Letter

I talked a little bit with R today, since she asked me how I was doing. I was able to kinda solidify my thoughts on something. When people tell me that I’m happy, or that I’m extroverted, it sometimes feels like it’s in an almost longing way — like they wish that they were like what they see of me. That makes me feel bitter, since it feels like they just think I’m like this naturally, and they don’t see how much concious effort and work I’ve had to do to prop that up. It feels like someone seeing a musician playing something beautifully, and just wishing they could do that, without acknowleding how much work the artist much have done to get there. And the fact that they could also do that same work to get the same result. But no one actually does that work. I work so hard to make my life one that I’m happy to live, and it’s not really something I can show to someone. How can I explain to someone how much I have to regulate my thoughts consciously, or how I have to be incredibly strict on myself to avoid slipping into a depressive episode, which feels like it’s always looming, waiting for me to mess up once. It’s exhausting, and I can’t always do it, and when I fail I get horribly depressed and suicidal for weeks at a time. I wish someone told me good job for keeping myself alive once in a while.