Maybe there’s a cure for sadness? Nah. They say happiness is what cures it, but I think it only stalls the sadness, the pain. It’s still there, it’s just hiding behind the shadows until that happiness wears off, then out of no where it attacks you. You don’t understand why it comes after you, you feel like you’re the only one it hurts. Like you are the only victim, but there are others who have felt it’s wrath, and you feel like you can relate to them but no, it’s a different sadness, a different shade of gray.
Give me the pills, and those damn therapist appointments, because those are the only things keeping me alive. Guess what? This smile on my dear, pretty face is a mask. I cover it with make-up, and I tell you that I am fine and the only way you can get the real truth out of me is by hooking me up to a lying detector. We lie, and people know it, they fucking know what’s going on when we are wearing our long sleeves and if those sleeves even roll up a tiny bit, we roll them down so fast, like we’re hiding a secret right up those sleeves. They think that they understand what’s going on in our minds, and how they know it’s hard, but it will get better in the future, we need it to get better now, we want it so bad to be better now. But it doesn’t, and then that’s when it gets even worse for us. We think, there’s no way, I can’t do this, and I can’t do that, so why try? Why put myself through so much to end up with nothing? I am so much better dead. No one will miss me.
Then what happens? You start thinking about how they’d find you, and you know that they won’t just not cry, they will be sobbing and screaming why, so you stay for their sake, not for yours. But you need something, that stinging pain, and so you harm yourself so you can live. You don’t know why you need it, but you do.
You don’t understand my pain, and I don’t understand yours.
And yet somehow, they’re just alike, our sadness.