Possible triggers. Read with caution.
I am safe. I love you.
The weight is physically oppressive. A heaviness that settles over my bones, making even the slightest movements a burden. The racing thoughts have stopped completely, and left vacancy and darkness in their place. Everything is still. I am still. I wish to remain still.
I am pessimism personified. Every dreadful possibility now becomes immediate reality within the swirl of smoke that's filled my skull. There is swill. There is rot. There is stagnation and filth. Every thought dark and disastrous.
My divorce will destroy me.
My children will resent me.
My family will tire of me.
My boyfriend will desert me.
I am helpless.
I am useless.
I deserve all of this.
Events present and past converge in the here and now, to confirm my fears. They didn't love me. They didn't protect me. They didn't come to me. Because this misery, this despair, this unquenchable torment is what I deserve. This heartache, and nothing more.
And it's heavy. My breathing is shallow. Even the effort of drawing a breath seems colossal and fruitless. I give in to it, and silently hope to suffocate under the weight of the sadness.
My veins feel full and sticky. Clogged with the years of filth and sorrow that have been ignored, brushed aside, suppressed. My blood feels old and tired. I want to open my veins and tug out the threads and the barbs and the thickness. Bleed out the old and make way for something fresh. Drain the sickness. Start again with new blood.
All this therapy and all this effort now seem like just another cruel trick; filling me with hope and promise of a new way of being, only to come crashing down around me in shards of failure, when I am reminded of just how deep I can sink.
Tomorrow is still there, and I will go on. A little weaker, and a little less hopeful for any kind of recovery.
I am still too stubborn, and too frightened to give up.
I miss him.