I live with the pain that assaults you as you sit down to write your final departure. It starts one day when the depression has done the job it’s designed to do. Pain. Lots of it. More pain. Yes, more than you can handle. The pills aren’t working. Therapy sessions only bring more pain. And as the people you love blame you for being too selfish, weak, or useless, I wait to tell you your story means something to me. It means something to the world. I hate that you have to tell it this way—crying, shaking, shivering, convulsing, bleeding, pounding, pounding, pounding—but I wasn’t created to stop you from telling your story. My only desire is to make you forget why you need to tell it in the first place.
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