Month 3

I definitely need an increase. A release. No matter what I do. Or don't. It's all my fault. Guilt isn't an emotion. It's a plague. Regret is a disease. One moment. Will effect. Infect. Your life. Happiness is the cure but I am the sickness. Every so often, no matter what happens, the light fades. Dies. Disappears. Where do you go? Where are you? Hope. Every once in a while, I see a bleak future. No future. I see things can only get worse. I don't see you. She said, "You always get so sick when you have something to hide. When you're keeping secrets. When you're guilty." I can't save the world. I carry these burdens. These truths and lies. I wear them alone. Like pins. Like I'm some pessimistic, obsessive collector. Almost like...I want this. Like I cannot exist, live, function, be. Without pain. Sick to my stomach. With guilt. Guilt. Is this guilt haunting me because I have done wrong? Have I been accused for so long, I was finally tricked into feeling guilt for no reason? For something I have no control over. Maybe I am miserable because I can't save the world. Maybe failure is enough to breed this despair. Is helplessness infectious? Contagious? A bacteria? Viral? Does it live in us all? Am I the only one without immunity? Skepticism, pessimism, cynicism, existentialism. All a pain in my heart. When matters of the heart and brain begin to wreak havoc on the body, is it not an illness? I have given my emotional problems a physical form. Tangible. Maybe she did this. Maybe it was me. Maybe if not for me, I'd have been happy. Maybe I am my own worst enemy. My own affliction. The broken cadence. My broken countenance. A broken countdown. At least a bomb is finite. Defined. Certain and constant. Zero means the end. When your mind is less a bomb and more a disease with no clock...you never know where to find the beginning or end. Enigmatic, cryptic, pensive. These words, this heart, this mind. This girl. Month three. Is this the end of the beginning, the beginning of the end, or just a middle? Maybe nothing even worth a label. Time will tell if I can be saved. Time. A clock. Counting down. When is zero?