He looked at me and asked, “why are we doing this?”
as if loving someone is something that we choose to do.

Had I known nine months ago how this adventure would end - I can’t say for certain I would do it again.

But that wasn’t for me to decide.

My heart saw something that it wanted and would stop at nothing to make it theirs.

I was drawn to him. pulled in from the feeling that this was right. That this made sense. That it was meant to feel this easy.

We do not get to choose who we fall in love with

Our hearts thrive on the affection from another and when it’s gone - the withdrawal is something you can’t kick.

Because
“why are WE doing this”
is just code for
“why am I doing this?”
“Why do I love you”
- there is no longer a “we”

Somewhere along the journey this duet became a solo act,
but I had been too caught up your love to notice.

why are we still doing this?

Loving someone isn’t meant to be easy - you are meant to fight to keep what feels right.

And if that is a question you are genuinely asking me right now...

then maybe we shouldn’t be doing this at all.

I look back at time stamps on photos

now knowing you had one foot out the door

You didn’t want to hurt me

Yet you continued to "love" me,
committed to a lie for 2 months.

As if you thought lying would soften the blow.

Ease the pain.

You didn’t love me anymore.

And I study these pictures

from beginning to end

and, it's true -- you can see the difference

from when you loved me and when you didn’t.

It scares me a bit, that from the inside
i didn’t notice a thing

They say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder

but i think i’m going blind.

The longer i stand in front of my reflection

the blurrier my vision gets

Because if I can’t see myself as beautiful

Why would anyone else?

It is said that people who are depressed spend their days sleeping and finding a home within their bed.

But we never hear about the people who can’t.

The ones, who no matter how hard they force their eyes shuts — cannot propel their mind from reality to dream.

Caught in this repetitive time loop of always being awake and constantly being tired.

I’ve been there —
created a home within the sheets
because it was safe.
it was comfortable

In my bed under three blankets was the one place where I felt like I wasn’t going to die.

Anywhere else was a one way ticket to panic city

Finding and holding on to that sense of safety became the only thing of importance.

Eating - nope

Showering - nope

Getting dressed- nope

Nothing made sense other than staying cocooned.

But --

If sleeping is where I found comfort - why do I only sleep about 20 hours a week?

I'm scared.

Scared that I'm going to fall back into being the person that I was — and not the person I’ve worked so hard to be.

Scared that I’ll remember the happy and safe feeling that engulfs us while we are asleep.

Scared that if I go to sleep, my brain will remember how much it likes to be shut off.

Scared because what if that is what my brain prefers.

Scared because what if I give in and I don’t wake up.

Scared

I live in a constant state of delusion that my world is not falling apart

But around me each day parts of the sky hit the ground.

Trying hard everyday to cope with the artificial happiness provided by chemicals digested at specific designated times.

Prescribed by someone who promises that everything will go back to the way it was.

But each day the memory of who I was fades away until it is nothing more than a shadow on the bathroom floor as I look into the mirror unable to recognize who I have become.

I’m tired of doing this.

I'm tired of having to live off of the demands of dosages that I will never understand.

because why do I have to take something artificial to feel something real again.

And I'm angry, because I know it wasn’t always like this,
but the road to get back home became too jagged to travel,
so I am forced to just watch in jealousy as everyone else figures it out.

They’ll send a postcard that reads, “We Wish You Were Here!”,
but they will never understand
how badly I wish I was.