She’s struggling

She’s having a hard time.

She’s feeling alone.

Unsupported in her feelings of grief, left to deal with the hardest things alone, like there’s no one safe to talk to. No one interested in being there.

She doesn’t want to do this anymore.

Her coping skills… the ones that were formed from a straight up survival mode….those aren’t working so well for her anymore.

The drinking? The self medicating? Seeking to escape reality in any way possible?

They’re not working anymore.

Because I want more. I want to escape further. Deeper into what doesn’t exist, what can’t exist.

The place I want to escape to isn’t my reality.

My reality is not peace and happiness and support and rainbows and sunshine.

My reality is…..it’s not where I want to be.

She’s struggling.

And she can’t admit it.

Not out loud. It isn’t safe to admit it out loud. Because who would listen? Who would care? Who would show up?

No one. The characters in her life live to shit on her and drown her further under water when she’s barely managing to breathe as it is.

If you need me for the next 2 months?

Don’t.

Because she’s struggling. She’s grieving.

She cannot breathe.

Yet she still has to plaster a fake as fuck smile on her face every single day.

As if it were okay.

As if she were fine.

Yeah.

As if.

All she wants is some time. Some space.

The safety to feel and process and exist as honestly as it is.

She wants to feel safe enough to feel. To talk. To be understood.

She’s struggling.

And really, she just needs a hug, 27 blankets and chocolate, and a strong cup of coffee.