You’ve probably lost count of the times I’ve told you I’m struggling/having a bad patch/need a break/not coping/want to hide in a dark corner.
What you won’t know is I’ve lost count of the times I haven’t told you because I can’t bear to hear myself say it, to make it real, to do this to you, to risk losing you.
A pain rises from my chest, through my throat into my tearducts. The longer and harder I try to stop it the stronger it becomes.
I try to find a space to release the pain.
I’m fighting. Always fighting. But nobody knows.
All around are the battles I’ve lost. Battles I didn’t want to fight.
Maybe some day we can talk about the ones I’ve won and you can be proud of me.