I laugh with you, smile and respond to your jokes. Mask concealing my true emotions, you can't see that I'm breaking inside. Crinkled eyes and giggles, it's no wonder you can't see the tears I refrain from setting free.

Oh, how I wish I could tell you. So many times I tried, but the bright smile on your face stops me every time. And, so with fear and guilt, I wait until you shut my bedroom light. No more mask. Finally I am free to feel ME.

So many nights I've cried myself to sleep. Great life, but this self-disastifaction remains. I tell myself I have no reason to be sad, but still these emotions remain.

How can I truly be happy, when I do not love myself? When I am so unhappy with my mind and body?

For so long I've tried to help myself. But nothing seems to work. If not me, who will help if I cannot even share my feelings with you? But how am I to tell you when I cannot stand the thought of breaking your heart?

Admitting that you're not okay. Admitting that you need help is one of the most difficult things to do.

       Humans are prideful. Most of us don't like to share our burdens. We prefer to plaster a brave face, then admit to a pain that can't be seen.

       We fear people's unpredictable reaction.

       When dealing with death, we know what to expect. People express sympathy and condolences, as they can relate to our pain. They know, or they can imagine what it would feel like to lose a loved one.

       People have a harder time sympathizing with mental illnesses. A lot of people can't relate to this type of pain, and think it's just a matter of learning to look on the bright side.

      Just because you can't relate to someone's experience, doesn't mean their feelings are any less valid.

       Mental health is so important, but we've been taught to hide it. We don't feel shame when we're physically ill. But for some reason mental illnesses bring some of us shame, even if the conditions are out of our control.

I knew for a very long time that I wasn't okay. The feelings of sadness, apathy and constant worry, were overwhelming. Deep down I knew that I needed help. But I kept everything inside.

       I didn't know how to seek help, when I couldn't put to word what I was feeling. Because I couldn't pinpoint a single reason for my feelings, I kept them hidden.

      And most of all, I didn't want to share my burden.

      I wrote the journal entry above, after nearly breaking down in front of my mom. I was having a bad day, itching to escape to my room so I could cry in peace, when she pulled me in to dance, with a look of pure love in her eyes that shattered something inside me.

       My biggest fear at that time was letting my parents witness my pain. My parents have always been protective. My mom especially is the typical mama bear, as in hurt my child and I'll hurt you.

      She has always made me feel safe. Open and encouraging to difficult conversations. But I didn't know how to tell her that I was in pain, and that there was nothing she could do to fix it.

      And I knew she would try to fix it. That's what parents do. They wash and bandage our scrapes and bruises, and finish it off with a kiss.

      This problem wasn't as easily fixed.

      So, I kept it to myself. Because, I figured it would only hurt her to know. She would feel hopeless. She'd think my sadness was somehow her fault.

      That night, as I tried to escape to my room, she was her usual goofy self. Steps away from my bedroom, she spun me around. Singing her favourite song, she twirled and swung us into a dance.

      It was a simple, 30 second interaction. But the blatant reminder of the love she held for me, hit me so hard that I almost confided in her. I so desperately wanted to break in her arms, and let her console me as she has done so often.

      But I took one look at the joy in her eyes, and I suddenly couldn't find it in myself to be honest, because I knew she would share my pain. She would have done anything to remove the burden from my shoulders, and bear them on her own.

      I didn't want that for her. My parents deserve the world.

      I truly thought I was doing what was best.

      It's only years later, that I've realized my lacking ability to confide in her probably hurt her more. Maybe she thought I didn't trust her enough. Maybe she thought I feared her judgement. But she did everything right. She supported me even when she didn't realize she was doing so.

       There was nothing else she could have done, because I hadn't voiced my difficult thoughts.

       I had placed myself in a position in which I couldn't be helped.