ghost castle

she is a microscope

i have a bad habit of making confessional posts on snapchat about how fucked up i feel. i have a couple different stories i add them to based on who i want to see them. it's embarrassing, childish even. a way to say how i'm feeling without dealing with it in any responsible way, or opening myself up to what could be a hard but helpful conversation. saying, "i feel bad, don't fix it, just listen."

recently someone from my past added me. she is someone who helped me feel better with my mental illness, in the days before i had been diagnosed, when i just felt bad with no explanation. she's in a fantastic place in her life. she's happy. she's fulfilled. she's in love.

i'm not.

pathetically, i included her in some of my posts. a near-desperate bid for the kind of comfort i haven't had in years, the kind of comfort she once offered me. she doesn't offer it anymore. she doesn't respond to the messages in the way some others—rarely—do.

instead of having another person to lean on her reappearance in my life has only held a microscope to the unhappiness that permeates every aspect of me. i see how futile, and pointless, and simple my every move is, how empty my head and my heart are, in such painful clarity that i wish i could gouge my internal eye out.

my thoughts swim from disease to self harm. i picture dying in all sorts of ways, momentarily struck with fear every time i pick up a pill bottle or a knife. the images have never been this frequent or this vivid. i'm increasingly worried about making it to the end of the year. the phrase that echoes in me is: "these are the end times."

these are the end times.

these are the end times.

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