#depressiontruth

there’s a war beneath my skin— not seen, not heard, only felt in the hollow ache of every restless night.

the needles of anxiety prick, sharp and endless, while depression drags me into pits without bottom.

i wear my scars like armor, but they don’t protect— they remind me of battles fought in silence, in dark corners where no one visits.

sometimes, i want to rip my own skin to feel something real, to drown the chaos with pain i can control.

but it’s not just the cutting— it’s the constant tug of rituals, the endless need to fix what isn’t broken, the crushing perfectionism that crushes me whole.

this isn’t a choice. this is survival, a twisted language my mind learned too well.

They think depression is silence, corners, crying, a grayscale Instagram post. They don’t see the jokes we tell, how we laugh loudest just to drown it out. We don’t hide because we’re liars— we hide because we’re bleeding and they only love us when we don’t.