Just because I can make it through the day (most days) does not mean that it is not a struggle. Just because I get out of bed everyday does not mean I do not have to fight the invisible weight trying to keep me there. Just because I go out does not mean I do not have the social anxiety making me skeptical of every possible scenario. Just because I talk to someone does not mean I enjoy conversation. Just because I smile does not mean I am not depressed. Just because I laugh does not mean I do not have bad thoughts or worries.

You see what is on the outside. You see the high functioning girl that I portray. If you were to step inside my head, it is nothing but over thought words, over used excuses and the inability to say no. I get out of bed in the morning because that is what I am told to do. I go out with my friends because I worry if I do not, they would not want to be my friends anymore. I smile and have polite conversation because that is what I am supposed to do. But inside my head, I run ragged trying to please everyone and act normal, when in reality, it makes me feel even worse about myself because I am hiding a huge part of who I am by trying to hide my diagnosis.

If I have a bad day, I try to run away from it. I sit in the corner and tell myself not to cry because crying shows my weakness and weakness shows that I am actually sick. I sit in bed at night trying to tell myself it is okay to be someone else. It is okay to be a slave to societies expectations. I tell myself that I have to be high functioning because those that cannot function are looked down upon, and what kind of person am I if I am not loved. But on days where it is physical impossible to cope and to function, I feel like a failure- not because I cannot function but because I gave into my weakness.

Society has pushed me to be ashamed of myself. Society has pushed me to force myself to function. And I think if that is my only reason for functioning, than that is very messed up. And before you say, "society isn't holding a gun to your head and telling you to function," it is. The gun is stigma and the bullets are the words and the whispers that penetrate my head and seep into my brain, that spends days dwelling on what someone in the supermarket said. They say not to let it get to you, but my brain is not so easily persuaded by your "helpful" words. I cannot make myself change. I can only cover what is on the inside with a mask of a girl unknown to herself that society sees as normal.

So next time that I have an obligatory conversation with you and you ask how I am, I will respond with "I'm okay," because that's what I am supposed to say. But I hope you know that I am far from okay, I am far from fine. I just will not let myself say it out loud. I hope you see it in my eyes and let me go on my way of forcing myself through the day but if you do not, that is alright because no one knows. And I will never say a word.