If this isn't hell, what is?

People look at me and all they see is the plastered smile. All they see is the fact my stomach protrudes and my thighs touch. All they see is my hair that never does what I ask it to do. All they see is the girl covered in makeup, and sometimes the girl who was “too lazy” to look presentable. All they see is the girl who does her hardest at her job and cries when she’s overwhelmed. All they see is this girl who pretends to be strong. All they see is what’s on the outside.

They don’t see the pain behind my tears. They don’t see the frown lines, hidden by my smile. They don’t see the insecurities. They don’t see how sometimes I have too much on my mind to cover the ugliness I see as my face. They don’t see the demons I fight, not only in my dreams, but everyday, that cause my dark circles under my eyes. They don’t see how I binge every day on food to fill up what’s empty inside. They don’t see the pain that wraps around every part of my life and squeezes, until I can’t breathe anymore. The horror that twists the view I have of myself; until I can’t even look in the mirror anymore. They don’t see how weak I really am inside.

I’m gasping out for air.
Freedom.
My arms are flailing.
Searching.
Hoping to grasp onto something.
Nothing.
And I just have to wake up and do it again.

I’m not afraid of dying. I’m afraid of what’s after. If this isn't hell, what is?