Grief is a troubling disease.  There are no words for it.  It only seems to be.  Its source only seems to exist, like the dream I had last night.  The raping only felt real.  The suffering was—is only grounded in an unconscious thought or a memory, perhaps, but even that only seems to exist.  Memory is only what we make it.  It’s never grounded in reality.  Much like dreams, in fact.

Much like this depression—ungrounded, unconscious, only what I make it.

But that isn’t true either.  It’s grounded in me.  Its limbs grow limbs in my unconscious.  And it isn’t what I make it.  I wouldn’t make this.  I couldn’t even conceive of this if I weren’t suffering from it from daybreak to dawn.

And all I want is a little rest.  Can you believe it?  I’ve always said I’m a simple girl with simple needs.  I just never really understood how basic my desires really are.

Our desires.  They’re as fragmented as ourselves, but one thing I’m certain of is I’m not alone in my efforts to cure this affliction.  I’m certainly not among the more progressed, either.

Instead, I’m like a child longing for home.  Except, there is no home.  There never was.

Only this nausea deep within my stomach, driving all my guts and heart up my throat.  I’ve always been like this—hoping for happiness, lonely amidst the crowd.  Pathetic, I think, sometimes.  Though apparently not as dramatic as I’ve been accused of being.  “Grieving is a troubling disease,” I began by stating.  I should know better than to minimize this to a mere “trouble” or to empower this thing by calling it a “disease.”

I should know better.  I should know a lot of things.  At the very least, that feels apparent.