I search high and low every waking second, hoping that something will present itself to me and cure me of all that is wrong. However, there is nothing, and every day I fall, disappointed, wondering if I should bother stirring on the morrow. Sometimes I don't feel at all, and other times, I wish I couldn't feel because the feelings are never good. I know that I am sick, and I know that there must be something that can be done, only, I don't know where to find my cure.
I'm tired of putting on a brave face, of pretending to be strong, when I feel so fragile and vulnerable on the inside. I don't want sympathy or pity, I want someone to fix it and make it all stop haunting me. I'm too frayed, and the threads of me are beginning to come apart; soon enough it will be obvious to everyone else. It's ridiculous how you can feel so alone but at the same time know that you are not.
I'll try to patch myself up with impermanent glue and sticky tape, but it has not been successful thus far. I will continue to drown among my sheets on my welcoming bed, the most sympathetic friend, and hope that tomorrow might bring something different, something that will stop this fatal illness.