Her Crippling Concealed Condition

Her crippling concealed condition, her debilitating darkened disorder, her inconspicuous, internal illness.
Invisible to those on the outside but known so intimately to her and the handful of people in her innermost circle.
Her public persona is that of a young professional, one who is engaging and capbable of holding a conversation with anyone.
Committed to her career, successful in her craft, dedicated to her vocation, loyal to her employer.
 
But when she retreats to her home, her tear-stained abode that acclimates her sadness perfectly, she crumbles.
Crawling into her unkempt, tear-stained bed, she wraps herself around her most familiar pillow and stares up towards the ceiling.
With a mind that is frantic, but a body that is exhausted, she wants to feel nothing, but is forced to handle all kinds of unwanted emotions.
The weeping commences without sobs, the anguish slowly seeping from her eyes, alleviating her confounded tension.
 
Come to think of it, her absenteeism was higher than that of her colleagues.
Now that you mention it, she did seem to bail out of informal events at the last minute on the regular.
When I examine it more closely, she did seem to disregard social engagement requests or decline invites altogether.
All things considered, there were plenty of warning signs that we either didn’t see or chose to ignore.
 
Why would she even try to offer a smile when she’s filled with so much grief and fatigue?
Because it’s the polite thing to do?
Because it will make you feel better?
So that others don’t have to feel culpable?
To keep others from expressing concern?

Her crippling concealed condition, her debilitating darkened disorder, her inconspicuous, internal illness.
Indiscernible to those on the exterior but known so intimately to her and the few people who she trusts the most.
Her obsessive thoughts constantly at the forefront of her brain, her compulsive tendencies nevermore than a fingertip’s length away.
Unsure of what version of herself will portray, she ducks away from the situation whenever the circumstances warrant.
 
Waking in a fog from after a lengthy stress-induced nap, she sighs deeply, today’s worries resurfacing the instant her eyes open.
Assaulted continuously by racing reflections, telling her that she’s less than, that she doesn’t belong, that she’s a mistake.
The negative self-talk never ceases; the potent verbal denials that her life has purpose have become ritualistic.
Ashamed of who she is, banishing herself in such ways that would evoke compassion from even the most heartless.
 
Come to think of it, she often did arrive at work looking disheveled, almost like she had just gotten out of bed.
Now that you mention it, she did regularly arrive late or leave early, often without having provided even a hint of notice.
When I examine it more closely, though she was affable, she rarely initiated a conversation nor tried to keep one going.
All things considered, there were plenty of warning signs that we either didn’t see or chose to ignore.
 
Why would she even try to offer a smile when she’s filled with so much grief and fatigue?
Because it’s the proper thing to do?
Because it’s something that she should be able to fake?
So that others don’t have to feel guilty?
To keep others from asking her what’s wrong?

Her crippling concealed condition, her debilitating darkened disorder, her inconspicuous, internal illness.
Undetectable to those on the peripheral, but known so intimately to her, her family, and her dearest of friends.
Fearful of criticism, of ostracization, of having her ideas unjustified, she disappears behind her closed, locked doors.
Tossing and turning underneath the comfort of her favorite ragged blanket, she simply prays for peace.

Alone, where no one can know the true her, she begs with God to disburden her of her thoughts and allow her to be free.
Knowing it won’t get better, but afraid it will get much worse, unsure of how she will get through her days.
The uncertainty seizes her mental stability and wrestles her until she abandons the fight and relinquishes her will.
She surrenders to the belief that she will never rid herself of this grip that would allow her to be whole.