“I’m ready. Depression.”
well, not entirely unexpected, but still, quite sudden plunge into it.
i mostly just want to cry now, but i’m also really freaking tired and don’t know if i can muster the strength.
i need to go grocery shopping tomorrow… haven’t had enough food in the house in ages…
I really wish this abdominal pain would go away… it’s too late for period pain and too early or ovulation pain.
I’m still breathing. For me, sometimes, that will have to be enough
Last night I thought I kissed the loneliness from out your belly button. I thought I did, but later you sat up, all bones and restless hands, and told me there is a knot in your body that I cannot undo. I never know what to say to these things. “It’s okay.” “Come back to bed.” “Please don’t go away again.” Sometimes you are gone for days at a time and it is all I can do not to call the police, file a missing person’s report, even though you are right there, still sleeping next to me in bed. But your eyes are like an empty house in winter: lights left on to scare away intruders. Except in this case I am the intruder and you are already locked up so tight that no one could possibly jimmy their way in. Last night I thought I gave you a reason not to be so sad when I held your body like a high note and we both trembled from the effort.
Some people, though, are sad against all reason, all sensibility, all love. I know better now. I know what to say to the things you admit to me in the dark, all bones and restless hands. “It’s okay.” “You can stay in bed.” “Please come back to me again.
I’ve had three of my housemates ask me if i’m okay this evening… so i figure i mustn’t be.
“No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause; At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody of something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom." – Vladmir Nabokov