When You Don't Know What's Wrong, But You Know It's Something

You don’t know what’s wrong, but you know it’s something. It’s October so it could be the weather but usually rainy days bring you back to life—not make you feel worse. It’s October and you’re stuck in a rut and you don’t what’s wrong, but you know it’s something.

You can feel it. Hovering beneath your skin, seeping into your bones—you can feel it. Or maybe this is just who you are now: tired. Your friends are always asking what’s wrong, you lie in bed all day never quite able to decipher a response. You’re tired and you’re stuck in a rut and you don’t know what’s wrong, but you know it’s something.

You make plans to distract yourself but you’re never really there. A drunken haze makes it better, tolerable, but never completely erases it. You dare the world to do something, to test you, break you, anything is better than nothing at all. Because maybe then you could put your finger on what’s wrong. But for now, you’re distracted and you’re stuck in a rut and you don’t know what’s wrong, but you know it’s something.

There’s something missing. You used to have it and it made you happy but now it’s gone and you don’t know why. You feel empty. You catch yourself staring into space, allowing yourself to slip into the darkness for just a minute before pressing your lips against the glass one more time. You’re drunk and you’re stuck in a rut and you don’t know what’s wrong, but you know it’s something.

You don’t have the words. You wish you could explain what’s going on but naming the monster gives you power over it and you’re weak. You pretend everything is okay with sarcastic comments and quick wit but it’s creeping through. You can’t make people laugh like you used to. You don’t have the words and you always have the words. That’s your thing. But every time you open your mouth your throat burns. You’re speechless and you’re stuck in a rut and you don’t know what’s wrong, but you know it’s something.

You tell people you’re fine. Because their sympathy has a deadline and you passed it three weeks ago. You tell people you’re fine because every time you start to tell the truth your throat burns and you soothe it with vodka and you don’t really have an answer anyway. You don’t know what’s wrong, but you know it’s something. Or maybe it’s nothing. Maybe you’re stuck in a rut. Maybe it’s the weather.

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