Thursday, November 11, 2010

The pretending; it's exhausting.
My smiles and laughs mean nothing.
I have no interest in what any of them have to say.
What are they all so happy about?
I come home finding my strength only allows me to climb into my bed.
Eyelids heavy, I snuggle under the covers, and let the numbness overcome me.
I have become a rock; no pain, no tears. Nothing.
The depression.
It is a never ending darkness.
You're closed off from the world. Dead in the stare of a thousand silent miles.
Eating is hard. Breathing is hard. Living is the hardest.
I've lost interest in music, and life, and learning.
Everything I could and should be, all lackluster.
And it's funny, it's been so long, I hardly remember how I even got here.
Everybody says that time heals everything.
But what about the hollowness in between?
Do we just sit here, cold, and sweat it out?
Dr. Pincock has sent my home this weekend.
He says I'm stable enough for that.
But I'm failing.
Failing mirrors and scales and phone calls.
Failing friendship.
Failing daughterhood and sisterhood.
Failing school.
A multigenre paper is due tomorrow.
10-pages, Times New Roman, typed.
But I shiver and crawl under the covers.
Falling into a slumber of overdue library books, and errands I must run later.
I hope I don't wake up.

1 comment:

  1. Oh dear; it is exhausting. All of it, much of it... Sometimes, we need rest. And that, seems the hardest part of all, when we work so hard, not to.