Rats

Oh God. I feel so horrible right now. So utterly lost and empty. I'm floating in a no-man's land of nothingness filled with poison and self-hatred and despair.

It's a purgatory of sorts, though I am the sole resident. There's no light, no windows, no doors. Every once in awhile I hear a soft chattering, a rustle of tiny claws, as the rats of hell and depression scutter by, stealing pieces of me. They're trying to take them all, those rats, until there's nothing left. I think they've almost succeeded.

I'm writing this at work. I wish I could hide right now. I wish I could disappear. I wish I could crawl inside myself and tear those rats out. Those goddamn rats . . .

So much could be causing this. The bipolar, the med changes, the overdose, hormones, who the fuck really knows . . . It's probably all of that. And maybe more. But this feeling of being in limbo, not really feeling, a little dazed, withdrawn, confused . . . I just. . . I don't know.

The only thing I do know is that the rats are tenacious. And hungry. I feel their eyes on me. Dull and glazed over, they pierce my every defense. Fighting these rats has become my existence. It's exhausting, going through each day struggling, trying to distract yourself long enough to go to bed, only to start it over the next day.

And still I push on, in spite of them. It might be easier to let them take me . . . but that's not an option. So I fight these rats. I bait them and distract them and remember who I'm fighting for. These rats, full of their plagues and lies, can't win.

So I push on and I fight, even when the soft squeaks sound alluring.