Some days I think I might be permanently broken. I think I have used up all of myself trying to help others, make things better and there's nothing left over for me. Nothing really prepares you for the moments when you put yourself out there, extend yourself beyond your comfort zones to a place where your heart and health are at risk and you are rebuked as though you came with evil intent.
I'm spent. I'm drowning. And no one is noticing. Kat tells me it is because I do such a good job of emulating someone who is coping. If only she could see the hurt, the anger, the gathering rage which for all it's substance still feels like a superficial film masking a rising tide of black nothing. I don't have the capacity to love the way I used to. I don't want to care about anyone or anything. I am morbidly obsessed with what it would be like to be empty and feel nothing.
I want to be swallowed by the earth, with nothing remaining but the occasional memory. Hey remember that girl with the red hair who smiled even when the tears ran down her face and said she was fine even when she wasn't? What happened to her? I don't know. I think she moved away.
Why does the thought of becoming a whisper seem so attractive? Because if I could fade like that I could give myself permission to take a bow and leave.
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