It’s that bad. People always say why didn’t they say anything. Why didn’t they reach out. Why didn’t they get help. I’m getting help. I have help. But it’s bad. It’s very bad. I’m plummeting. I don’t feel strong. I don’t feel brave. Another day. Another hour. Another minute. I can’t do this. And yet here I am. Still trying to hang on. Still trying not to look for exits. Still trying to care about the people that love me. It’s hard to see the love through the tears, the pain, the misery. They’re not in this. They don’t have to feel this. Who is anyone to tell me to hang on. I’m so scared. I can see the precipice from here. What am I supposed to do. Drug it away? That’s temporary. It’s not gone, just hidden. Then returns. Again. And again. And again. I want a do over. In a different body. With a different brain. A stupid one. One that isn’t self aware. I am my own torturer. I don’t know what to do. In a minute I will stuff all of this back inside, and go back downstairs somewhat put together, and pretend again for a while. Until I can’t hold it in, and then it will spill out like this again.