Looking at myself in the mirror looking back at me. Do I like what I see?
Not so much.
I see the dark bruises underneath my eyes, rubbed raw by shirt sleeves wiping away tears and inked purple by many sleepless nights. I see the red speckles, sprinkled across my face — in the corners of my mouth, in the creases around my nose, emerging at the tip of my chin, cropping up across my forehead. I see the wrinkles crinkling my sun tanned forehead, writing the stress of relationships and schoolwork for the public to read. I see my dull, darkened eyes peering back at me, hiding the twisted turmoil within.
Depression has robbed me of my personality and character. Anxiety has robbed me of my joy and peace. It’s funny how those two go hand-in-hand. They dance a deathly and intertwined tango at my expense.