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Mum is using the oxygen machine. Again. Been using it for the past week, more than ever before. Seriously, if she didn't have it, would she be brain dead by now?
The doctor wrote a letter to some person supposed to help us. I saw what he said. He said she has at max 12 months. Don't think I believe him. Mum always pulls through and seems okay, then gets worse again. We've played this game for years now. Kinda thinking I know more about it than the doctors now.
Wish he was right.
I had just started actually breathing again. I was smiling. I felt kinda okay, but forget about that. Here's another boulder for you to carry.
Took a walk. Told myself to cry. One tear and that was it. Starting to think getting even one tear is an achievement. Sure doesn't make me feel better. Just worse cause I needed more than that.
Every song I sing is more like a moan than a melody. My voice cracks, I miss the notes. Certainly wouldn't want me singing at someone's funeral.
I'm SICK of standing in my room trying to breathe again. Sick of watching the sun go down, gasping for air. Sick of the room suffocating me. It won't let go.
I stand up. I take a deep breath. I scream silently with all my might. I clench my fists, I feel the aching muscles in my hands and wrists.
Nothing.
Nothing, nothing, nothing!
That's it. That's life in a nutshell. Nothing.
JUST STOP STOP STOP!!!!!!!! I HATE THIS HELL! I WANT OUT!!!
A growl was torn from Purple's throat. He grabbed the paper he had been writing on and tore it in shreds till there were tiny pieces scattered all across his bedroom floor. His shoulders heaved from breathing heavily as he stared at the carpet covered in white flecks. A chuckle escaped his throat.
And yet, I still feel nothing.
Tomorrow's another day. I'll get up. I'll smile. I'll do my job. The kids I work with will laugh and I'll join in. I'll come home late at night and make it to my room before I snap again.
I'll sleep, then repeat the cycle again.
Day in. Day out.
That's life.
That's my life.