I haven’t been writing because I’ve been surviving.  I wish I could say that I’ve been okay but the reality is that I have been barely getting by.  The Ache, the quicksand, the darkness, were about to engulf me.  I was frightened.  I was scared of myself: scared that I would do the thing that is tragically permanent.  The thought of going to the hospital was getting stronger in my mind as I was sinking further and further and my mind was waging a violent battle within itself.

I sought help: I cried out to God, I emailed my therapist, I called my psychiatrist’s office, I texted a wise friend.  Desperation was pulling me down and suffocating me.  I was gasping for air.

I’m on the other side of this living hell.  I’m shaken and exhausted.  I’m angry that this is not the first time it has happened.  I fear that there will be a next time and I’m so scared that I won’t survive it.  But that’s a lie – that’s the darkness and the Ache talking.  This is often a lonely journey but not a hopeless one.  There are people there to reach out to even if it is excruciating to admit that I need help.  Even if it is strangers in a hospital staff (if it comes to that) there is someone to help.  It’s damn hard, though, admitting that I am drowning and hopeless. The pressure of the deep waters crushing me, engulfing me, obliterating me.

I’ve come up from the depths relishing the air that was getting increasingly scarce – my body and soul filled with life once again.  I’m on the path of this lifelong journey trying to take the steps that move me forward, trying not to sink.  I still need help.  I often feel like I’m limping along and loneliness overwhelms me.  I need to remind myself every day (often every hour) to breathe and remember that I am not alone.