"my life is over"

drowning is the best word i can find to describe how it feels to be chronically sad. there is a constant pressure coating my skin, a never ending push that keeps me between realities: one where i exist and one where i wish i did not. my body feels heavy, filled with lead, while simultaneously overwhelmingly numb. my head begins to burn, as if set on fire by my own circling thoughts; this emotion is perhaps the most powerful one, acting as the main drive for my spiraling conscience. the effects of emotional isolation ripple throughout my mind as i forget what it means to be who i am; what it means to love what i love. this drives me out of myself as a shell of who i once was begins to take form. losing interest in everything worth living for during the moments in which this sickness takes place serves as my own personal nightmare, leading me to doubt everything i thought i stood for. during the times that the sadness is in control i detach from my identity, no longer truly existing. i allow my mind to be poisoned by my own harmful thoughts as a means to feel, to understand. life becomes a performance as every day bleeds together and i am less and less myself. the world changes, becomes less extraordinary. my senses dull, going on a sort of panic mode while trying to protect me from myself. the universe feels so small that my sadness is the only weight I can carry. ultimately the other emotions serve as a distraction from the strength of this depression. led by my internal demon my brain clings to dangerous wishes. every day i walk around with this looming guilt and discomfort within my own body, as if something terrible is attempting to claw its way out. my insecurities scream at me- a deafening cry- and remind me of all the things i will never be. i am rarely able to shake their shouts; the sounds of their cries echo as i try to live my life. i catch myself slipping underneath the edge of sanity and do what i can to convince myself that i am still okay. sometimes i wonder if i am ready for life, if my soul was truly prepared. some days all i can do is lay around feeling sorry for myself, even though i know that will do nothing to help my condition. yet still i find comfort in sitting in my sorrow, a comfort of the familiar- my own kind of ordinary. when this cycle begins i anticipate the moment in which my brain melts into sadness, becoming the thing itself, infecting every part of my body and every facet of my life.