I’m feeling desperately alone. The kind of loneliness that envelops your whole body and brazenly pushes away everyone and everything that could possibly help because (you think) nothing can penetrate it.
The kind of lonely that writes phone notes like this on a gorgeous sunny day in the middle of a run in hopes to stop the thoughts from being on repeat: Sometimes—oftentimes—I think I’ll go ahead and attempt. If I survive, I’m meant to live. If I don’t, it was supposed to be that way.
Alone because it’s quiet and dark and I am alone in this room. Lonely because no one else in the entire world can hear the chaos, demands, abuse, I tell myself all day.
Sometimes I don’t want to feed the good wolf anymore. It seems futile.