This Is Not Who I Am

It’s half past midnight, and here I sit alone.

But I’m not alone; he’s sleeping right next to me, though he might as well be miles away.

It’s gotten so bad that I nearly can’t function.

Every day is a battle with myself, a battle I am sorely losing.

I can’t work; I can’t play; I can’t even force myself out of fucking bed.

I can’t do anything but think, and regret, and put off.

So close to the bottom already, the slightest nudge pushes me into the darkness.

One argument, one bad day, just one damn thing is enough to bring me to that place.

It’s out of my control.

It grabs me by the wrists and yanks me down as I beg and plead for it to stop.

But it doesn’t stop.

Some days it crushes my soul until I collapse to the floor from absolute exhaustion.

I clutch my chest in the fetal position, but I can never quite curl up small enough to stop existing.

And somehow I get up every single time.

I should be lying next to my husband like I do every night.

But I’m wide awake propped up with a pillow; enveloped by the darkness as I stare blankly into it.

There’s nothing there, but it presses down heavily on my chest.

The blackness is miserable, yet somehow comforting.

I can’t stop thinking.

I can’t stop feeling.

I’m angry.

This is not who I am.