There’s a place apart from suicide. A place where you don’t think to cause yourself harm, but neither do you have reason to live. I get out of bed every morning. I eat, I bathe, I go to work. I talk to people. I even laugh. None of this is living.[shared_counts]
I miss you with an ache that leaves me breathless. I walk through my day like an animated husk. I want to care about things. I want to want to care.
I have everything and nothing at the same time. I have a house, and clothes, and people who care about me. I have money, and work, and most of my health. My career is better than I ever thought it could be, and people continue to want to take care of me. None of this is enough.
I hurt. I am not suicidal, but neither am I alive. I’m just — here.
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Topics Page: People & Relationships
Topics Page: Mental Health After Loss
Write Your Grief: A Letter from the In-Between
Miranda’s Blog: Awareness Isn’t Enough