I lie about being fine, because I have no idea how I would even begin to explain what’s bothering me. It’s impossible to put these fondness into terms. If I tried to tell someone why I’ve been so lately, they wouldn’t understand what I convey. They wouldn’t comprehend the extent of how much anguish my mentality is putting me through.
I lie about being fine, because the only parties I is appear comfortable talking to about my questions are the people I don’t want to bother. I don’t want them to worry about me. I want them to think I’m living a happy, fulfilling life. I don’t want to delivering them down with my misery.
I lie about being fine, because when people ask questions how I’m doing, I feel like they’re only trying to reach communication. They’re exclusively saying what they’ve been stated to add. They don’t expect an actual rebut. They don’t want me to go into detail about all of the reasons why it took me an hour to get out of bed that morning. They would rather listen a fairly lie than the hideous truth.
I lie about being fine, because in comparison to most people, “peoples lives” fine. I feel like an asshole for complaining about my difficulties when I know how small they are in the stately planned of things. I feel guilty about behaving like I have it so bumpy when really, things aren’t going all that bad for me.
I lie about being fine, because it’s what I’ve always done. The intuition of opening my center up and telling the truth doesn’t even sweep my sentiment anymore. When someone asks how I am, my nerve instinct is to impersonate that everything is okay.
I lie about being fine, because I would rather have beings look at me like I’m strong. I don’t want to come across as a drama monarch — or even worse, as someone to be pitied. I don’t want people to think I’m too feelings and tiptoe around my ardours. I don’t want to be treated any differently than I am now.
I lie about being fine, because the only people who actually to know how I’m feeling are the last beings I want to explain my pain to. When I’m with them, I want to enjoy myself. I want to use their corporation as an flee. I want to forget about my troubles while they’re around , not talk about them.
I lie about being fine, because I’m perplexed about the acces that I detect. I wish that I could easily smile instead of forcing imitation ones. I wish that I could enjoy the moment instead of always seeing something to complain about. I wish that I knew how to reach happiness instead of constantly wallowing in my own misery.
I lie about being fine, because I’m trying to trick myself into believing that it’s the truth. I’m trying to get better. I’m trying to be happy again.
I’m trying to convince everyone, include myself, that things are going to be okay.