Tuesday my therapist asks me if he can read my poetry, I tell him no. He asks me if I'd let him buy my book if I made one, I say yes.
Friday night I am more honest with a room full of over 100 strangers than I've ever been in front of a mental health professional.
My parents want to know why I don't let them come to school events or any of my performances.
My friends want to know why I don't invite them over.
It's easier to be public with my suicide attempts and hospitalizations in front of a room full of strangers than it is to let my closest friends see how messy my room looks like.
The people I live with never see what I create, and the people who see what I create will never know what it's like to live with me.
I don't know how to explain that I have who I am as a person, then I have who I am on a page.
When a person finds out too much of me, I feel who I was and who I want to be colliding, ideal world meets reality, everything explodes.
It feels wrong, like someone you don't like breathing onto your neck, and you can feel the sweat, and the panic.
I am realizing that it's okay that I need to keep a part of me hidden away in order to feel whole.
