AmyA persistent friend.
Vodka.
Peanut brittle.
I would hate myself if I could feel anything, but I can’t—at least, not right now. I merely exist in this world of tormented darkness where nothing makes sense. I’m lost.
And, though I’m consumed with emptiness, I’m oddly full. Regret, remorse, and sadness so massive within, so all-encompassing that I’m drowning.
I’m lonely, but I don’t have the desire to be comforted.
I’m sad, but nothing could cheer me up.
I’m exhausted, but I can’t sleep regardless of the countless hours I lie in bed each day.
What’s wrong with me?
I’d ask for help if I knew what to ask for.
Each day is a struggle just to breathe. I go through the motions, coaxing myself through life.
Get up.
Get dressed.
Breathe.
Walk to class.
Take notes.
Breathe.
E
