If my therapist were to take a look at my life over the past couple of weeks, he would tell me that  I was improving. I swallow my pills in the morning without a fuss. I go to class in the morning, and I go to sleep at night. I socialize. I do my homework. I go to work. I live.

And I want to tell him I'm doing all of this. I want to tell him, I went out a few times this week with my boyfriend. I saw my friends a few times on campus. I went to all of my classes. I took a pill every morning, just like my psychiatrist told me to do. I want to tell him all of this because I want someone on this planet to believe that I'm getting better. I need someone on this planet to believe I'm getting better.

What I can't tell him is that when I wake up in the morning, sometimes I just wish my body wouldn't bother doing so. I wake up with inexplicable aches and pains that come from a night of bone-chilling worry. What I can't ever tell him is that, when I take my ten milligrams, one Lexapro every morning, I sometimes dump the whole bottle of pills in my hand and I wonder how many it would take to make me numb.

I put them all back in the bottle though. I will always put them back. Isn't that what counts?

I want to tell him that I laugh often. I want to tell him I appreciate good food and good music, and I want to tell him that I love and am loved in return. That helps me a lot, being loved, and not just by Isaias but by friends and family too.

But I can't tell him that sometimes I laugh because silly is who I know how to be. Sometimes I am hungry, but sometimes I am so disgusted with my life that I wish I could stop eating and vanish out of existence. Sometimes I listen to music and it pisses me off that beautiful things exist and I still feel the way that I feel.

I want to tell him that I'm learning another language, but I don't want him to know that sometimes I talk to myself in Spanish because it's the only way to slow my brain down enough not to hate myself. I'll say that I have been sleeping, but what I won't tell him is that the mere act of being alive is almost too hard for me to keep doing. I'll tell him the truth: I am not suicidal, but I am still tired of living the life that I was given.

If God were real, he'd be a sick fucker.

I want to tell my therapist that I need help, but I need someone to believe that I'm okay. It's not rational. I'm going to a therapist to help me, and I know that he cannot help me if I don't tell him how many times per day I wish that I'd existing and be erased from the memory of the world. I know he cannot help me if he doesn't know. But if he doesn't know, then maybe someone will think me okay. He deals with people all day who don't know how to help themselves. I'll be just another work-burden to him.

I don't think I'll ever be okay.