People tell you to ask for help – but it’s not real. They say they want to help, to be there, but they don’t actually want to hear what you really feel. They can’t handle it and you are nothing but a burdensome weight, a yoke about the shoulders, waiting to be sloughed off. You practically scream for help, and the hands go to the ears and no one listens.

You know you aren’t a victim, but logic doesn’t have a part in this play. No woe is me, no pity party. You accept everything you have done, everything you haven’t done, everything you might do, everything you might do. You even accept everything others have done, might, might not, could, maybe do. All of it sits squarely on your ever widening shoulders.

A stone locked around the body may be light at first, but as the hours and days drag on, so too does it.

You survived so much, you are so strong – surely asking for help should be a last resort.

It is.

I’m so tired.

Just when you think the unwanted tears will stop, they intrude again. Just when you think it’s done and dealt with, it bites you. There’s no rest with a mind that won’t stop running over every possible scenario that could, should, would happen. It’s there – just on the edge, you can see that light that people talk about – that sweet spot where the mind stops and you are at peace.

I wonder what that feels like.

A hermit’s life sounds so lovely at times.

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