I am the walking wounded.

I am the person with no skin, no protection to shield a heart which is but a gaping, bleeding wound.



I feel alien. My eyes seek solace when I am out walking, looking for something I can feel some kind of affinity with.



I feel an unnatural amount of relief if someone says something I can relate to. I hold onto it and go over it at night in my bed before I sleep.



Yet there is joy in sorrow. I feel. At least I feel.



This is who I am. I don't think I am programmed to be happy.



Yet I have moments of joy and sanctity. My children I thank for these - they keep me breathing.



Some days I want to die - I fantasise about driving my car off the road. Today I smoked a cigarette crouched next to my car so the neighbour wouldnt try to engage me in any kind of conversation - i thought if he looked at me he would know how fucked up i really am - and i stared at the one of the tires on my car and i thought about what my head would look like squashed underneath it.



I feel lost and so, so alone.



My body hurts. My ears hurt, the sound of the television is making me feel crazy. There is never silence in this house, always screaming, always pulling at me.