It’s a hole you fall into. Sometimes there’s a bottom, but other times you feel like Alice. Just falling, falling. You know what it is: you’ve been here before. You know you’re not thinking straight. These thoughts aren’t your thoughts. You know you don’t want to die. You know that you’re strong. You have people who care about you. You’re smart. You’re funny.
But when you’re here, when the pit consumes you…that world isn’t real anymore. You’re falling and you can’t stop. Sometimes you can’t breathe.
The last thing you want or need to hear is the standard reassurance. You know there’s people out there who have it worse. That only makes you hate yourself more. Because you know you shouldn’t feel this way. You feel guilty, you want to hide it. No one will understand.
You feel it start. Something small happened, something that doesn’t matter. You begin to crumble. The last thing you need is to be alone, but you hide. You hide because you don’t want anyone to see. You feel like this is the real you, locked away like a misshapen creature in a cage. The real you, hidden behind your grin and your wit.
You fall apart.
You don’t want to die. You’ve never wanted to die. Sometimes you thought you did, but you didn’t.
You just want to stop. It’s not death. You would just…stop existing.
And then you wake up. It’s a new day and you’re okay. You’re happy and you feel good. You keep walking, like nothing happened. It’s okay, no one knows.
But it’s still there, and you’re afraid of it. You don’t know what might make it happen again and you’re so afraid that next time you won’t come back.
In the end, you’re still here. And that counts for something.