The drugs, the therapists, the psychiatrists, the meditation, the music, the writing, the running can’t fix it.
My mask is too heavy. Instead of strapping it on, I seclude myself. I can be of no help to anyone like this.
I dread interactions. I dread small talk, conversations with friends, making eye contact with a cashier. I cannot focus. I repeat myself. I forget. I do not know how I will be able to go back to work and function in my career.
There is no trigger for this mood. No sudden tragedy to explain it away. No trauma from which I need to heal. I am not mourning a loved one or a failed ambition.
There is so much which I have to be grateful. I know I am fortunate. I know I am privileged. I know I have no right to feel this way and I am overwhelmed with guilt for these feelings.
This is not poetry; it is confession. This not therapy; it is clarification. I am not asking for commiseration or sympathy. I do not need cheering or company. I don’t want pity.
I am lost. I have always been lost. I will always be lost.
I want to be forgiven.
I want peace.