There’s never going to be a last time.

There is no cure.

There is only the finite space

Of not-so-bad

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,

No hospice,

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.

PF

Want to submit to this site and share your story, art, or article related to mental health or mental illness? Email wemustbebroken@gmail.com

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