It hurts. Everything hurts. My chest hurts when I think of how far away he is, how far my best friend is, how far everyone is. My eyes hurt from crying so hard every night, they sting for hours the next morning. My stomach hurts when I look at my self in the mirror, all spotty, chubby and brace-faced.
I am ashamed of myself and my label. Clinically depressed. Yet I am unwilling to let it go because the letter of diagnosis I have kept in my coat pocket for 18months validates me. I'm not a drama queen, I'm ill. I'm not lazy, I'm ill. I'm not crazy, I'm ill.
But I'm not getting better. I'm not in treatment anymore and I thought I was doing okay but then someone shook the snow globe that is my world and I am still waiting for it to settle. I'm waiting for it to settle but I know things will look different when it does, and I don't want different, I want familiarity and safety. I want home.
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