Melodrama.

I stand in the hallway, struggling to leave. Fully dressed.

Like I’ve struggled to leave the house for two days. My whole body aches, but I know I’m not really sick. Just, fucking.steeped in sadness like some twice used, lumpy teabag. Nothing left. / I read over these words from December last year, rolling my eyes so far back into my skull I’m a little concerned they may stay back there. But here is the “it’s almost March already” version of me. Sickening me, because wow. All the shit has really caught up with me, eh? And. Well damn “is this depression now?” (It was depression before) Can I no longer pretend that it isn’t? Pretend that I’m not wondering if pills are the only solution right now. Because I am in a pit of slimy muck with little motivation to climb out, for fear that there is more. So much more to come. Because, I mean- there is, right? So at least I’m not delusional. Yep. That’s not my voice. Have I dissociated so hard that something else has taken over and locked me out? But honestly, I’m not that mad about it. Coz I’m so damn exhausted. Okay > back to December, I guess?//

Grief makes every joint burn. I got up early today, thinking I could trick my tendency of giving up on leaving the house if I just got dressed early enough. But I made a second coffee instead. 

Watched an entire series that I didn’t even enjoy and only half focused on. 

“I’m just so tired, one more hour” “I’ll leave before it gets dark. Definitely. I put my shoes on and stand in the hall. 

5 minutes, 10 minutes? 

Go outside. “I don’t want to”  I’m so tired of people. So tired of feeling sad. I catch the bus. I have a destination. The stop comes up where I need to change and I talk myself out of it. I know I’d have to converse there. And I can’t do it. I visualise getting off the bus at London Bridge- the last stop. Thank goodness, because who knows where I could have ended up. 

I walk back across the bridge. It’s too busy and my body hurts. I just want to curl up. Give up. I don’t, I won’t. I can’t. Two people have told me in the past week that I need to believe in miracles. As if I am not praying with every fucking fibre of my being for just that. People I thought knew me well, telling me I need to be more resilient. Stay strong. Be positive. I tell them to fuck off in my head. Maybe I need to learn to say it out loud - more politely though I guess.

-  I guess? 

And now. (it’s April now btw as I read this whole thing back) Now it’s actually now and am I actually finally going to, publish this? Four months later perhaps I’m just detached enough to do it. Perhaps I just don’t give a fuck anymore.