I smile and I laugh because crying takes too much energy and I’m already so tired. Though, I am not alone in my exhaustion. See I had a friend once, she swore by pretending, said putting on a face was easier than trying to make hers genuine. I thought she was full of it because my life was going good at the time, before it wasn’t. Before I used the debris of my previous joyful nights to build me a face like hers, worthy of existing under false pretenses. It only started to Crack after a set of bad days. I tried to keep the pieces from falling but it was no use. I was showing. I lost my temper more, I cracked jokes less, Noone wanted to be around a sad person. 

And eventually I told myself to get up. To stop being such a pussy. But the floor cradled me and the last thing I wanted was to feel the fear of being on my own two wobbly legs.

It was scary because I hadn’t felt that sad in years. I hadn’t struggled so much in so long and it was so awful because the truth is that I did get better, and the truth is also that at the start of a sentence I got worse.