Living Lonely

It's fine. I'll just go to my side, and wrap myself on the old familiar loneliness. At the edge of the bed.

I'll be afraid all by myself. I'll sleep to avoid reality, but force myself awake to end the n8ghtmares. I won't ask for help because you wouldn't know how to help anyway. 

So I'll be alone and lonely. I'll drink so I can sleep. I'll become an addict because I have no one there for me in my hour of need. You say I just have to ask, but when I do, you leave me lonely. 

I'm afraid to go outside. I'm afraid to be home alone. I'm afraid to split up when we go run errands. I'm honestly afraid of even being alive. I'm lonely and terrified because I have no one there when I need, and this world is far too upsetting for me.

Living Sick

I'm sick. I'm sicker than I care to admit. I'm too sick to function most days. I can't sleep. I can't eat. Sometimes, I literally can't breath. On occasion, I'm unable to breath just long enough for my knees to give way, and I start to collapse, but I come to before they completely give out. And somehow, I find myself disappointed. I'm disappointed that I didn't faint, that I didn't hit my head and end up in a coma. I'm disappointed that every ounce of anxiety is still there and nothing has changed in my life to relieve it.

When I say I'm sick, I mean my mental health is failing. I mean that it takes every bit of energy I have to make it through the day, even if all I do is lay in bed, maybe go to the living room to watch tv. It means that all vitality has left me. My mind is so full that it causes an overwhelm that leaves me too numb to process anything. I can't go shopping anymore because within ten minutes, I'm having a panic attack. I can't study anything because my mind won't focus.

For me, being sick means that it takes every ounce of self-control that my weak mind can muster, just to stay alive. It's painful. It's so, so painful. I cut because I think it'll help me express myself. I cut because it keeps me from doing something worse. I cut because I know it can help me feel better.
But I resist cutting because it scares my husband.

I pray and I pray and I pray, but the pain doesn't go away. I don't feel strengthened. I cry out, I beg for a lighter cross to carry, but it seems that this burden is what I'm meant to carry. It seems that my hope is in vain, and this is the death I am forced to live.

I'm simultaneously depressed and anxious. I'm both unable to care about anything and worried about everything. It's hell  Each day, I feel as though I'm living through hell. Sometimes, so rarely that I often forget they can exist, there's a day when I don't feel like crying, I don't have a panic attack, and death doesn't overtake my thoughts. On those days, I actually believe I'm alive, that I have a purpose, that things may actually be okay again. But I haven't seen that kind of day in so long, and I wonder if I ever will again. I wonder if I'm destined to live in fear of life and dread of a future.

Will I forever wish to be dead? Please, God, don't let it be.