The tumblers are drained and then flooded, again and again

I had a dream the other night. All my friends were angry with me. I kept trying to fix things, but just made everything worse.

No place feels like home lately except being alone on my couch. Everywhere is empty. I don’t want to be here, so I go out. I don’t want to be there, so I go home. I feel trapped in a perpetual state of flight.

I keep asking the question, “What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing is wrong with you,” my friends say.

“Nothing is wrong with you,” my therapist says.

This is normal.

This is not normal. Everything doesn’t have to feel like it’s falling apart. Everything doesn’t have to feel like it’s broken.

Two steps forward. Two steps back. They’re the only dance steps I seem to know anymore.

“This place is a prison. These people aren’t your friends.” It feels true and then it doesn’t. I trust nothing. Love has become a vapor, subliming from my skin.

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