jesus wept

the humor is as always not lost on me

i’m here in bed, drinking too much and laying on my back

i feel ugly, i hate this face and body i’ve been given, meanwhile hundreds of comments pour in full of compliments about my physicality

“stay alive for FFS”

“if i can become a pretty old lady then i want to live to be old”

i would tell myself these sorts of things to get me through the cold walls and long nights and now, with this insurance denial

how can i say

it’s the loss of all the potential, all the moments that could have been

i can always try again i know, but this is the third or fourth time

i feel diminished

i feel small

what a thunderous crash from the mania

god i try so hard and i keep losing

i just keep losing

what anchor tethers me here now

i have to find one quickly

waves and waves of grief cascade and crash upon my head

i’m powerless and in peril

even under my heated blanket, im cold