I used to be a writer. I used to write day in and out while in school. I preferred that over listening to the lectures or reading my books; because I was stressed out. By what?

By grades, by my home life, my social life, my personal life, by my anxiety, by my depression, by the heavy, heavy loss of a very close family member. I'd rather just tune it all out and write about my imaginary woes on paper,where it seemed at least there I had control. I had catharsis.

It was like a weight lifted off my shoulder every time, being able to take how I was feeling, what I was dealing with -- those inner demons -- and put them to rest.

I never edited what I wrote, at least, not seriously. Never had the courage? The care or whim? To publish them. They were short. They were personal, personal enough for me that I remember when I wrote them, what I listened to when I do, where I was when I wrote them, the long hours of writing them... That I didn't think anyone would get it. They never did.

My depression got worse. Instead of being able to write and wrestle with what I dealt with, I became numb. I just felt this haze over my brain that was suffocating. It was as though I couldn't focus on anything else but it.

And so, my writing slowly stopped. I journaled, but, I receded from that too, as I didn't want the world to have a raw look at my own troubles.

I always described what I felt as a ghost. I had no reason to feel so heavy, so why did I? Why was I feeling like there was something lingering in my space that made me feel so awful? It was like I struggled with lucidity. Feeling mentally clear one moment and the next I'm stupid with depression.

My last, best writing, I wrote for a friend. I was drinking, and crying, and I was so torn up after everything we've been through. I was scared for them. For myself. I had been there for them, wanted to be there for them. So I wrote. And it was the last thing I felt proud of writing because it didn't feel forced or pressured, and to me, it said everything I wanted to say without ever having said it.

But now... I'm alone. I've reached out to close friends, I've tried making calls. I've had to shut out some close friends because it was healthier for me. I didn't have thst many to begin with, so it hurts that much more.

I'm alone. I don't even have my words to console me now. I feel as though I'm a pitiful mess between blabbering that I'm sorry for being a mess, and letting my anxiety tear my neurons from their sheath. I'm not quite there yet, but I'm at the edge of the metaphorical cliff of an anxiety attack with no one to talk me down.

Sorry. This got heavy. It felt good for a while until I remembered I was alone. It also got longer than anticipated. Sorry, for that, too.

But, thanks for reading, if you do.