I tried desperately to stay awake last night, only to fall asleep faster than I had wanted. Cue nightmares. I am exhausted. I have to get up and maintain a semblance of normalcy and pretend I’m ok. I have work, my teaching little children I assist with, and I don’t want them tainted by my depression. So I grin and pretend I am fine, when I am really a wreck, a twisted burned out wreck. Something you hurl into a landfill to be forgotten forever.
J hasn’t rung in two nights. I’m scaring him away too now. It’s what I always do- find something good and poison it with my shit.
I’m going to listen to the dark passenger because they want me dead, and now so do I. I am over the hope that I will be better, because I never will be. There is no cure for PTSD, so I don’t get to find a way out of this. I will always be a horrific burden.
Time that burden ceased to be.