'You'll be fine, you're you.'
Honey, you don't even know who I am. You see the smile I stick on, you see the 'fine' result at the end, you spend all your time resenting the person you have decided I am because you won't let me show you my flaws or my pain. I am paralysed with fear in a crowed room and you tell me to get over myself because you're trying to worry about the new boy you like.
'Oh don't be ridiculous, you're perrrfect' 'Your life is so perfect' 'You can't complain.' 'You can't sympathise.' 'You've never felt what I feel.' 'Your problems don't exist.' Or rather,
'You don't have my sympathy because I'm jealous of you.'
Jealous of what? Of the nausea? The trembling? The desire to escape that builds up until I feel it pounding in my head and I cry and cry because it's the only way I seem to be able to let feelings leave my body? You see things work out 'fine' for me, but you don't see the process. You don't see the hours spent staring at a blank screen before submitting an assignment. You don't see the panic attack before the party. You don't see the bad days because you don't want to hear about them.
So don't fucking tell me I'm perfect. Don't tell me this means things will be fine. Things are fine because I put every ounce of energy into making them so, because you have created a perfect person that I can never be, but can't bear to fall short of.