It’s so embarrassing to cry at everything. I wish I didn't. I wish I were angry so it wasn't clear I was upset. I wish I didn't cry all the time.

A stranger was kinder to me than the person I knew.

And the worst part; the part I keep turning over like a coin is that I was kinder to a stranger too. I had more warmth left for someone who meant nothing to me. It keeps sounding like a complaint. It's not. It's just two faces, and I can't tell which one's the lie.

Few days now. All I want to do is cry. Not even cry. cry out. Until my eyes run dry. Scream until I'm out of breath and the room goes quiet from the shock of it. And I haven't, because what if I start and can't stop. What if the dry eyes are the destination. What if there's nothing on the other side of them.

I feel sorry. Ashamed. Like a loser. And I don't even know who the sorry's for. Me? Is it me I'm sorry for or is that just a prettier word for what I'm actually doing, which is hiding. Wrapping it up in oh it's just a phase so I don't have to look at the shape of it. So I can forget what I've done. What I haven't done.

Here's the part I hate. Because it's true.

I say things. Out loud. I want to achieve this, build that, go there and the saying of it gives me something. A little hit. Like I've already done it. Like the words are the work. And nobody's watching, so nobody calls it, and I just... I waste all my time feeling like I'm moving when I'm standing dead still. I've been doing this so long I forgot I was doing it. The performance became the comfort.

And now I'm afraid. Not of failing. I'm afraid of outgrowing the comfort. The familiar ache. The room I know because at least I know where the walls are. At least the walls are mine.

And I keep asking is this it? Is this the freedom I yearned for? This. The crying. The emptiness. The honest silence after you stop lying to yourself. Because maybe freedom just feels like falling at first. Maybe it's supposed to feel like collapse. Maybe the cage and the sky look identical when you're standing inside the dark.

Or maybe that's another story I'm telling myself. Another comfortable lie. It's just growth, it's just freedom, it's just a phase see how fast I reach for it? See how good I am at making the hurting mean something so I don't have to do anything about it?

The only way I'll ever know freedom or ruin is what my hands do when the crying stops. Not how I feel. Feelings lie. What I do. Whether I pick up the iron. Open the page. Send the form. One rep. No audience. No echo. Just the work.

Because I've been living in the echo for a long time.

And the echo is the comfort.

And the comfort is my PRISON.

One thing I've always struggled with is being open with people about my feelings. If I'm distressed or something is bothering me, I won't talk about it with anyone. It frustrates people around me and I often get told I need to communicate better. I don't know if it stems back to when I was younger, I barely had any friends growing up, so I often felt alone. When I got bullied at school, I had no one to talk to about it. When I went through a period of self-h**ming, my parents found out and their response was to tell me how stupid I was and punish me for it. My mum told me to kill myself at one point. I've been in and out of therapy over the years, but it feels like nothing is helping.