I don’t think you realize it, or maybe you do.
I don’t know. I don’t know much of anything any more.
All I know is that I am dying, inside. Everyday it gets harder and harder.
To get up, to breathe.
To pretend everything is okay.
Everyday I lose myself fighting the tide.
Because that’s what depression is.
It’s the capacity to swim under water.
But I am not swimming, I forgot how too.
Nevertheless I see everyone around me playing in the water.
Don’t worry though, its one of the many things I am not good at.
I can’t play sports; I have tried, but failed
Its because I am fat.
I suck at school. I am failing everything.
I am failure.
I lost interest in everything I ever loved.
Reading used to be my passion.
My escape.
Now its my torment, my anger.
Reading no longer blocks out the screaming.
The tears still stream down my face.
The pain still remains.
And the thing about pain; is it demands to be felt.
I don’t have a escape.
A friend
I do have
My tears, my screams, my nightmares.
I have my pain, I hold so dear.
Because feeling pain means I am at least feeling something.
I am not dead.
At least not yet.
