People suddenly become extra nice when they know you’re going away.
At heart, I have always been a coper, I’ve mostly been able to walk around with my wounds safely hidden, and I’ve always stored up my deep depressive episodes for the weeks off when there was time to have an abbreviated version of a complete breakdown. But in the end, I’d be able to get up and on with it, could always do what little must be done to scratch by.
You are loved. They always tell you that. And that’s what makes it difficult. You’re too ashamed to admit to the people who love you that sometimes, you don’t feel it. Maybe it’s you who’s the problem. Maybe you’re just too blind to see that people do care for you, but you don’t want to lie to yourself. You still feel alone, you still feel a bit worthless from time to time.
You are loved. And in spite how you’re feeling, you want to believe that you are.