Someday, when I'm not enveloped in redesigns and new designs, when I'm not returning to my apartment at 3:00 a.m., I will tell you everything.
I will tell you of my broken skin, of my red eyes and blurred face. I will tell you of my uncombed hair, my stack of unwashed jeans. I will tell you of my irrational hatred for Ames, and my inability to forget the past.
I will tell you my past; share with you the intimacies that have destroyed my perception of this city. I will tell you of my work, of how busy it keeps me. Of how it doesn't seem to give me enough time to myself. Of how it has mangled my sleep; of how, first thing in the morning, I remember the headline I wrote incorrectly, the word I spelled wrong, the scores I forgot to update, the page I labeled incorrectly. I will tell you that the subconscious is a bitch.
I will tell you that I was a good student. Tell you that I was good at school, but not so good at real life. I will tell you of my loneliness, of my aching, burning, hurting, constant throbbing for family. For friends. For Purdue. For campus. For sleep. For myself.
I will tell you that I am no longer myself; that I am now bitter, ever so much more than before. Pessimism has been replaced by endless anger, which, at work, is passivity, at the apartment, is endless moaning and, by myself, in my car, as I leave work, is a stream of hot tears. I yell. I scream. I shake my head. I pound fists onto my chest, attempting to beat anxiety from my heart.
I will tell you that I do not enjoy these emotions. I will tell you that depression has reared its ugly head and made me prostrate. I will tell you that I have, once again, fallen victim to it. Again. Not once, not twice, not thrice. I will tell you that, in my short life, that this is the fourth time I wrapped myself in slumber-less sheets, the fourth time that my waking hours are spent either in tears or in empty numbness. I will tell you that this is the first time I've ever had to face it alone.
I do not rely on drugs foreign to my body; though they would be of assistance, I know that they will only mask the problem. The fears. The anxiety. The tiredness. What I want--what I really want--is a friend. A person. A love. Someone. I will tell you that the only thing I want right now is a hug. I want someone to love me; to be here and tell me what I can do, what I shouldn't do, what is possible, and what is meant to be.
I will tell you that my friends, family and boyfriend are aware of my health and unhappiness. I will tell you they are here and there for me. However, I will also tell you that texts, phone calls, emails and Skype sessions cannot replace--or even compare, really--to the intimate, personal human contact that I really, really want.
I will tell you that I do not do well alone.
I will tell you that I am not happy.
I will tell you that this must change.
... I just don't know where to start. And, unsurprisingly, God isn't showing me any neon signs at this moment. I certainly don't expect Him to, though. I just hope that our conversations yield a greater comfort, and soon, because something will need to change, and His guidance is essential.
This is not healthy.
I know now why my brother never wants to visit our hometown.
But that, of course, is just another thing I'll have to tell you.