Time To Get Real

Sick

I've been sick for a long, long time. But no one was the wiser until I broke down. I'm a pro at social acting. I'm sure almost everyone is. A piece of paper is the only space where I can be almost completely honest without giving myself away. If everyone only knew how sick I really am. How close I am to losing it. It's better they don't know. If they continue believing I'm still a brick wall impervious to everything.

I still can't find a good enough reason why I shouldn't die. I've been over it, and over it, and still I can't taste anything, feel anything. Logic tells me I'm still in shock, that I can recover, but it doesn't seem worth it. After all, what do I really have that's mine? That can't be taken away? Even my few hundred pages of paper that I've spent eight years spinning tales on can be destroyed, have been destroyed several times. I have nothing to offer anyone but a good laugh, and maybe a good thought, but nothing life-changing,nothing real.

I shouldn't be thinking like this, I know I've took my Zoloft last night, but I can't help it. I feel like I'm some needy thing who exists somewhere between sleep and drowsiness, never really awake. It's all I can do to keep myself alive like this. I wouldn't wish this on anyone, the confusion, the frustration at not being able to focus on book you love to read, the drowsiness that can attack you behind the wheel making you swerve like a drunk, not any of it.

But I can't kill myself. Somewhere under the ice of my skin, I still care for the people in my life, and my sudden departure from this place would do more harm than good to them.

So I stay here, in this place, somewhere between the living and the dead, and sometimes, sometimes, I am allowed rest.