Everything Is Perfect

Today is a bad day. She closes her eyes and allows the darkness inside her to ebb and flow. It's too hard to fight today.

There is an odd burning smell in her nose that accompanies these bouts of depression. Phantosmia, it's called. A fitting name. It's overwhelming and choking, and chases sleep away faster than a nightmare. In many ways, it is an equaliser; bad smells, good smells, bad days, good days; doesn't matter, they all go up in chemical flames. Some days, she fantasises that it's all the light inside her burning itself up. Then she laughs because the beast inside her wants out.

Don't slip away from me now, she begs of her sanity.

Nonetheless, the little light she still possesses — that hasn't burnt itself up — drains away into some inaccessible abyss deep inside her, awaiting to be released another day. And it will be released another day. She just doesn't know when. She never does. With a sigh, the last of her light is expelled from her being.

This is the side of her that no one knows or sees.

She's too scared to decide to show her real emotions, but too deceptive for anyone to immediately see beyond her outer shell. When she feels perfect, she acts like everything is perfect. When she feels just fine, she acts like everything is perfect. But even when she is not fine at all, she acts like everything is perfect. So when she shows that everything actually isn't perfect, people begin to question her.

She doesn't feel like playing pretend anymore.

It's at the point where people forget she's a person with problems too. She knows she's very low on proverbial rungs of the social ladder. She wishes she could gain real respect, in every sense of the word. It seems to come easily to everyone else, to the people she slaves away to impress. She wants to be like them too. But to do that, she would have to tell people when she feels disrespected. And she's too scared she'll offend them to do that. It'll never happen.

Reminding herself of these thoughts only feeds the darkness, but she can't help it.

Everything is not perfect.

~   ~   ~   ~   ~  ~  ~

Today is a good day! Dark thoughts no longer plague me, and I'm happy about it. My light has conveniently chosen today to surface; darkness, begone! Not only am I in a better mindset, but I feel better physically too. Not strangely fatigued like when I'm having a not-okay day. No chemical burning smell in my nose. It's almost as if the depressing thoughts weigh me down to a point where I can barely move.

Not today.

I think what I'm learning is that external sources provide a distraction for me. I'm grateful for it. I mean, sure, I get taken for granted a bunch but it's not too bad. People still sort of respect me. Not as much as I'd like, but it's fine I guess. I don't want to make them uncomfortable by doing anything about it. I'd feel so guilty if they got upset with me, knowing it was my fault. Better keep my mouth shut, eh? I can stand it; I'm strong.

Besides, these are my real emotions. Everyone is different; I don't have to be sullen to gain respect. There are plenty of people who can have just as much respect while still being happy all the time. Approachable, right? Yes, that's what I'm choosing to be. I really do try.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath and exhale. It's days like these that I feel content with everything in my life. Where the darkness fades for just long enough that I can see how great my life actually is.

Everything is perfect.

~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~

Today is a terrible day. Her head drops into her hands; she doesn't want to see the world anymore. It has disappointed her enough, and she doesn't want to be let down again.

Stay strong, she urges herself futilely, you can pull yourself through it.

...Can I?

It's difficult for her sometimes, especially after feeling so good for a while. Like coasting just high enough that her problems can't touch her, but then crashing and being suffocated alive by irrational imaginations and smoke. It's so bad she can't even distinguish if her feelings are normal or not.

It's almost like she's two people.

It's almost like I'm two people.

She is constantly sad, longing for the day when light will fill her. She spends all her time waiting, but not enough living in the moment. She smiles too, but it's flat; almost like there are other emotions hidden behind her eyes while she does it. Why can't people see them, she demands. But inside there is no answer.

I am usually content. When I smile, it's because I feel genuinely happy. Euphoric, almost. I wish I could be like this always.

She is beautiful, with the kind of beauty that radiates from within, not the kind that is someone's outer appearance. But she refuses to let herself accept it. Maybe she just doesn't know it. If she just accepted the idea that she is worth it, her beauty would be blinding. Instead, it is shrouded by her insecurity.

I am not particularly good-looking. I am insecure about my appearance, but I don't obsess over it. It doesn't really bother me; it's more important that people like me for my personality, not my looks. I am confident in myself, and I know I have people who love me. That's all that matters.

She is crafted from darkness.

I am crafted from light.

The two of them differ so much, but have somehow derived from the same person. Or maybe the same person came from them.

She thinks everything is not perfect.

I think everything is perfect.

Sadly, it's impossible to compromise.