Dust

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I live in 10 am pain, sobbing after breakfast, body crushing on the bed. I stay in destitute lands of "should have grown out of it by now" and too fragile to move out.

Plunging into metaphors as my brain tries to make the world relate to late onsets of depression.

When you were younger you couldn't swim, fought so hard to come up from the water enough to take a shaky breath before going under again. As the years went on you learned to float, a neutral state of not really caring at all, and forgetting how to struggle for oxygen. However, you don't know how to swim your way to shore. In a way that's what therapy is, swimming lessons for the faint of heart. But what if I don't want to get to safety?

It doesn't make a load sense, I'm deadly aware of it. But if you admit that things aren't as bad as they used to be, there is no justification for self-destructive methods of coping, you have to start to move on.

Accept defeat: you were too weak to make a hasty depart in teen years, now you're stuck deflecting urges that freeze you while your peers grow older. Five winters and still waiting for someone to give me the okay to drown.

The hardest part is attempting to find reasoning for why you are not as bad as you used to be, you've learned to deal with some of it, but most of the issues still eat away at you at a not so rapid speed. Underlying conditions, better concealed than in previous days.

Do you really need to remain in the hold of it? Is there enough motive to keep other's at bay, or can you start letting feelings in?
You lost your friends and your family, you burnt bridges before they got to them, ten foot pole between you and any sort of relationship.

You hurt yourself, but then comes the clarity, you hurt those who continued to care for you to a far greater extent than your physical self.

Bury your face in the pillow until it hurts to let air in and let lies out. You are horrible for not choosing to recover, who else but a monster would do this to their own sister? Force them to move out and find comfort in a whole other family because you took too much time and attention, though you didn't really mean to. You just wanted to be small, tiny and invisible, lost in the gaps from drops of rain, until nobody noticed you stopped being there at all.

How much of a selfish masochist can you be? The dull aches of not living blinding you to how you make other's feel small too.