It's lonely when you're sober. You want it to be over, or at least you want someone to save you and maintain the mediocre state of stability that you've managed to create. Deep down, you don't think that you can do it all by yourself.
You refuse to deal with your loneliness. You're scared of the dark, so you fall asleep to a television screen so bright that it feels like sunlight. You're so afraid to face your feelings that you fill yourself with toxins, poisons that course through your blood so quick that you don't have time to think about what you're doing, about everyone that you miss, about your perpetual anxiety, about every area of your life that you've somehow or another fucked up.
None of that matters once you're the one that's fucked up.
You settle for distractions, and you know it. Sometimes it's your timeline, littered with snapshots into the lives of people you're only associated with a fraction of a degree. None of it should matter; the girl that you had an algebra class with in high school is going on another vacation. Your friend's boyfriend just landed the Best. Job. Ever.
But where are you?
Hunched over your laptop, locked into your bed, too weak to fight back against the inner monologue that's kept you down for as long as you can remember.
You want it to stop.
You want to reach out.
Type "Well, I guess this is my existence."
There's that voice again. That is so like you. To just settle.
Why should I bother? I don't want to impose.
Everyone's always doing something important. I'm a problem. I don't want to waste their time.
So you turn to something that you've got control over.
Something that doesn't talk back until it's gone.
And even then, it's just to say refill me.
And it's still lonely.