Depression at its finest.


I woke up, staring into the eyes of my fear. I feared one day I'd be alone, by myself with no one to hold at night when the earth is in its darkest moments. I hated waking up to reality. It failed me every time, I mean it's not like reality ever pulled through. I never felt so empty inside, even when I would walk the streets of Manhattan, I still had the people of New York to keep me company. Well less company more surrounded with people that cared less about my well being. It was better than having no one around. Not even a pet, or a child to call my own. I was alone, and I would stay alone until my death bed. For this I believed, no matter what happened or who came into my life.

I always believed I would never die with someone I loved. It was something I grew numb to. Ever since all the pain of my birth mom and husband I taught myself that it's better to be alone then no one can hurt you. This was not true, it's never better to be alone with so many people out in the world. It makes you feel like you are nothing and no one cares about you. Waking up before the birds were chirping and going downstairs to no one. Cooking for no one but myself. Going to work for no one but myself. I stopped doing all these things, I didn't see the meaning of it all. I would lay in bed staring at the ceiling, not being able to move. I was stuck in the parallel universe of an isolated life with no one to talk to.

Of course except for my therapist Eugene. He was the only one who would shake his head yes and understood what I was saying. Of course he gets paid for doing so. I don't consider him as someone who keeps me company, he wouldn't be doing this if he didn't get paid. My eviction notices were stacking on my kitchen table, it had been almost a month and a half since I stopped paying rent. I considered that they would come and find me laying on my bed and take me out. Then I would have some company maybe if I became homeless I could be accompanied by people who cared or maybe not. I always just thought ending my life would be a better way. I may be alone then but I wouldn't have the knowledge of there being other people who didn't care. I would just be alone. I promised myself after everything that happened that I wouldn't enter this part of my brain, the depressed part. But I did, after so many years of it eating on my happiness. It spread across my body like a virus and I became someone no one wanted to talk to. My mother even tried reaching me once, but things didn't work out. I ignored most calls from her that she came over once and I wouldn't open the door. I was scared. I was scared that I wouldn't know what to do or say. I was scared that if I tried leaving this isolated life I wouldn't be able to come back. This is my only safe haven I have left. I wouldn't let anyone hurt me again.

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