There’s never going to be a last time.
There is no cure.
There is only the finite space
Of kind of okay
The discrete moments of joy.
And they’re so hard to remember
Especially when the sadness
Is so overwhelming,
When the melancholy floats to the surface
Like poisonous cream,
When I’m already so tired
And the reality is that the best
I can hope for is respite
Rather than true relief.
It’s like having a terminal illness
That never terminates,
And there’s no palliative care,
And so often, no real understanding,
Just empty platitudes.
Submitted by Hanna Lange who runs a blog that you can find and check out here.
Always remember you are not alone.
You are loved.
Want to submit to this site and share your story, art, or article related to mental health or mental illness? Email email@example.com