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The weekend has broken me. It has taken my weak, brittle bones and broken them. It doesn't matter why. Just life. Just the things that happen because they are the things that happen.

I was, of course, working on the book. And working on the book is extremely difficult. It's difficult for so many reasons, but one of them is that the person who was supposed to hold my hand got sick, and could barely hold his own hand, let alone mine.

Not his fault, obviously. But disappointing and crushing for me. Again, reasons. Again, they don't matter.

And I wasn't very stable when I got here. I haven't been having a really stable month. But that's the book. The book is so hard. My life is so hard. Reliving my life is so hard. There are spots of light tucked away in there too, but it isn't nearly enough to make up for the rest. It isn't nearly enough to buoy the spirit.

People write depression books all the time, although now I must even more vehemently ask why. Why spend so long picking out words that serve to depress not only others but also you, as the writer, even more profoundly. I know why I'm doing it. I'm doing it because it's my life. I'm doing it because I feel like I have to. But do other people have to write depressing books? I don't think so.

And so I've been alone too much here, without even my cats to keep me company. Trying in vain to get as much work done as possible. But. But. It all caught up with me last night. The demons found me. The evil found me. Something that's trying to kill me, found me.

Yesterday morning I worked with my very sick friend on the book, and knew I wasn't doing well. But I couldn't really tell him. He needed to focus. He had so little to give that it had to go on the book. And so I play-acted. Yes. Fine. Yes. Normal tears. Yes. Fine. Actually trying to life him up, and make him feel better, because he was so sick, and he was trying anyway.

But when he went his way, and I went mine, it all fell apart. I had become so dissociative, I could only see the pain, waiting for me to fall into it. I couldn't get any part of my brain to work. I couldn't get any part of my mind to enter the room. I only knew that it was really, really bad and that it was all around me. The tears wouldn't flow, because there were too many.

And then another friend arrive, beautiful and glowing. She's an impossibly beautiful creature with kindness in spades. I know her. She knows me. And so I break. I break into pieces in front of her. Humpty-Dumpty fell off a wall. And she doesn't speak. There's nothing to say. There's nothing to say to the pain. There's nothing to say to the tears. There's nothing to say to the thing that's trying to kill me.

And she let's me cry. And cry. And cry. She lets my tears fall on her face. Without complaining. Without moving. And then she curls up into me, and hugs me. As the tears continue, even as I try to stop them.

Eventually she has to go. She was somewhere to be. Most people do. I ask her to stay. But I don't do with resolve or with meaning. I just ask her to stay. She says that she can't. Which is understandable, she can't. And then I let her leave. I let her leave without really telling her what she needed to know.

She needed to know how bad it was. She needed to know what I might do if she left. She needed to know what I couldn't stop thinking about doing. She needed to know that I really needed her to stay.

It would have been nice if she had known. If she had understood what was really happening. If she knew the difference between sad and dangerously sad. But she didn't. How could she? How could anyone? No one seems to know. No one seems to hear the difference in the words. No one seems to see the difference in the tears.

But of course it's not her job to read my mind. It's not anyone's job to read my mind. It's my job to tell her. I know. It's my job to tell someone. I know. But the words are so hard to say. The words are too hard to say. Please help me. Please don't leave me here by myself. I'm scared of what I might do. Please. Please stay.

And even if I could say this, the other person wouldn't know what to do with it. It's too much pressure for someone to know you're that sick. It's soo much pressure for someone to know that you're scared of your own actions. It's too much pressure for them to try to stop you. It's too much pressure for them to stay.

I know.

It's too much pressure for me too. It's too much pressure trying to keep me alive. It's too much pressure not to take the pills. It's too much pressure not to cut the skin. It's too much pressure not to die.