May 1

Depression.

It's a strange thing. It starts with a few snide comments, a few jokes here and there. A few weekends you stay at home and fall asleep at 7 just so you don't need to think anymore. Before you know it, you're sneaking vodka in to your room late at night and only finding solace in the thousands of cigarettes you smoke out of your bedroom window at one in the morning and the razor blade you keep under the flowerpot in your bedroom, knowing that nobody'll ever think of looking under there. Everything becomes your fault. Everything makes you want to just crawl in to a ball on your floor and cry your eyes out - it's all you do anymore. By the end of the day your eyes are too sore from all the crying to stay open and you can't talk anymore because your mouth is too tired from the fake smile you've had sewn on to your face from the moment you woke up until the second you collapse on to your bed, too spent to even undress. Everyone's wrong - once you fall in to this place there's absolutely no way to truly leave it. It stays with you - you just bury it away, pretend it doesn't exist. Eventually you've lied to yourself enough to think that you're past it, but no. You always go back. You stay there and, one sweet, merciful day, you forget how to breathe and, along with it, how to find your way back to that place.

For better or worse,

Lenore.