I think I might be broken. I don’t feel anything. No anger, no hatred, no love, no forgiveness.
I use terms of emotion lightly, because they bear no burden on my shoulders. Yet I am weighed down with all these commitments to plaster feelings all over my face. No one lets me have the benefit of the doubt.
“Surely you feel something? Are you sure you don’t feel anything?”, they say, as though saying that sentence will cause emotion to flood back into my veins.
“What about that time you cried?”, they say, being unaware that I have no emotional connection to what my body seems to accidentally do at times.
Like when I am still, vacant behind the eyes, as my body screams with panic. When I throw up and wonder why my throat is retching when my brain is empty. When I feel my skin prickle with hot, angry hives even though I am emotionally redundant.
Depression is more than sadness. Anxiety is more than worry. They are more than the medication you forget to take every day and then suffer the consequences for.
Yet, I feel less. I am less. I am less than what I was, not that I remember anything more than what I am. I cannot connect to who I was, whoever that is, and whoever I will be. I exist reluctantly, without feeling the reluctance, like my body wishes itself away very noisily whilst I sit in it, unmoved by its demonstrations.
I am so far removed from this body and yet I manage to maintain some kind of persona. It’s not personal, I insist. It’s not your fault. You’re not an uncaring person, you just can’t care. You’re not empty, you just don’t feel fulfilled.
I can’t lie to myself, I know the truth. I can lie with my face, smile when required, look sad when someone needs me to, and fulfill the outward emotional quota. What kind of life is this? Is this life? Is this what everything has led up to- an act of kindness without the kindness to make it happen?
Or is it simply me overthinking so hard that I drown out the yearning voices urging me to let that tear fall like it was unintended?
I don’t know. But at the same time, I do.
I know I’ve thought out the way I behave in a controlled manner. I know it’s easier for me to say words like “easier”, even though I cannot identify with anything being easier when nothing feels hard. How can I even speak anymore, and how can I even converse? I cannot identify with what they’re saying, I cannot be moved by their humility or outraged by their vanity.
Who am I even talking to? Do I need to see a counsellor? But then if I see a counsellor, I will just say what I know they need to hear to make them feel better about themselves. But why do I let them feel like there’s progress? Why am I so keen to move on, lips pursed, case closed?
Stop reading me. Stop reading me. Stop reading me.