Broken (in the best possible way)

another sneakier, terrible thought where I realize that if I do die I’ll get some rest. That’s fucked up. I know it. And as soon as it hits my mind I shoo it away because I know it’s the depression, but this is a place for honesty, so there it is.

I would have liked to say, “It’s okay. I can do this,” but the truth was that I couldn’t.

I’m in that bad part of depression. That step past sad. The step into numb. It’s not a good numb. It’s uncomfortable and out of control and I wonder if I’m even real.

One friend is a lot. It’s one more than I’ve had at many times in my life.

I fell so far into my own head that I couldn’t see how to get out of it.

Life is full of these moments that are supposed to be amazing but end up being questionable at best.

Forgive yourself. For being broken. For being you. For thinking those are things that you need forgiveness for.

I tell myself I will be me again soon. But until I am, I may be a broken dove, reminding others of the terrible but fantastic visions that come with an unquiet mind and the strange burden of sometimes becoming a shadow.

If I ever exchange vodka for running-on-purpose it’ll be a pretty good sign that I’m in a cult and need rescuing.