Blank Screen

I sit here and stare at a blank screen. So much to say but don’t know what or how. Typing and then deleting. Closing the laptop and opening it again. Posting then deleting then posting again. Anxious to talk and speak my mind and be carefree but too scared no one cares enough to listen. Scared to be annoying.

Texts, notifications, and social interactions light up a phone screen. Open the message to stare at it and close it again because I don’t have energy to respond. An LOL is sent with tears on my cheek. But I won’t tell you because it’s a burden. And fearful I’ll become a topic of conversation during a group outing I can’t make or a group conversation I’m not in.

So desperate to be seen but desire to be left alone. Anxiety ridden thoughts cause a storm of depression. And the PTSD makes me remember why I deal with it in silence. So I sit here and stare at a blank screen. Knowing you can’t read what I don’t put on paper. But putting pen to paper is vulnerability. And vulnerability is lack of control. Something the anxious me can’t handle. Because the PTSD gives me flashbacks of other times of vulnerability. And the depression is the love child of the two.

But the screen is not always blank. Some days it’s full of words, color, and pictures. Bright and vibrant and full of life and love and laughter. These things ebb and flow. However, I’m learning that the people I need in my life are the ones who keep reading even when the screen is blank. The ones who don’t take advantage by typing their own part of my story. Because once written, I can’t edit and revise before it’s read.

So I sit here and stare at a no longer blank screen. My finger on the delete button. Because sometimes blank is just easier.

May is Mental Health Awareness month. Your life matters. You are loved.