I am directionless, floating propelled by a current I am unable to fight, and am too tired to fight if I could. I'm tired of always fighting. I'm tired of always fighting.
I am drenched in paranoia. I feel unable to trust anyone; eventually everyone will turn against me if they haven't already. They talk about me behind closed doors; they snicker at me behind cupped hands; they are setting me up for a fall. They laugh at me. They're setting me up.
Family and friends with the best intentions tell me it's OK, try to give me positive affirmations, try to help me see the bright side. I know they are trying, but they are doing it wrong. The more they tell me how good I am, the more I know I am not. I can never be what they see. I am a fraud.
I'm not looking for "oh it's going to be OK," or "I am here for you," or "let's talk about it." They are well-meaning, but they don't fill the gaping empty hole. I am trapped inside my my own head, locked in, screaming. Can't they hear me screaming? Can't you hear me screaming?
The inevitable question I cannot answer: "What's wrong?" The cruelest question you could ask me. The question itself taunts me; it is asked knowing I cannot answer. What's wrong? If I knew I could fix it, change it or leave it.
I can never stop fighting, yet I am too tired to fight anymore. I don't want to feel like this anymore. I don't want to have to fight this anymore. Yet, I must.
Somewhere, echoing inside my hurting head, a sliver of a sane voice tells me to hang on; this storm will pass, like all the others have passed. But why must I suffer the storms, again and again?
I am tired of always fighting. I will cry myself to sleep tonight. The demons have won this battle; the war rages on.
