It’s an odd thing, wondering whether your own mind and emotions are trustworthy.

My life goes in cycles – sometimes fast, often slow – between better and worse. When things are worse, I like to think I hide my problems and go on with life, but things bleed through. If instead of hiding from others I try tell them the truth, I find myself phrasing things like I’m not worried. “Isn’t it funny how it sounds like I’m asking for help? Of course I’m not really serious. I mean, I’m not suicidal or anything, so obviously I don’t have any real problems.”

I do this even when I’m just thinking to myself. You just feel bad. This is normal. Nothing is actually wrong. Once you relax a little you’ll feel better. No need to let anyone see how worried you are. You can handle this on your own. Don’t make a big deal out of it.

At what point does me worrying about my worrying become worrisome?

I tell myself that my own feelings aren’t valid. I tell myself that I’m wrong when I think something might be wrong. I tell myself that since my problems aren’t nearly as bad as the problems of some others, that I’m making up the whole thing. But how do I know if I’m right?

I wonder if there’s some trauma in my past that I can’t remember.

I wonder if my moods are just moods or if there’s a tiny bit of clinical magic mixed in.

I sit here and marvel at how emotional I’m trying to be, and then I think of the parts of my life where I’m frighteningly devoid of emotion.

I’m not certain I know what love feels like, romantic or familial.

I feel like a sponge, desperate for emotion, but I suck it all up and it’s not enough. I’m immediately dry to the touch again, a blank slate, empty. Not sad or depressed, just hungry.

I used to wish that some doctor or psychiatrist would tell me that something was indeed wrong with me. So then I would at least know. I think that desire is back again.

I think I’m ready to face whatever truth is out there. About my mind, my past, my heart. But I don’t know how to find it.