Sometimes I feel stuck. My life is full of might have beens and used to bes. The weariness resides around my eyes, and the stress shows on the cracks that form inside each knuckle on my hand. Depression sneaks in, like a thief, and until I find something missing, I never even notice it’s been there.

Conflicted and moody, I stumble through my days, doing what needs to be done. I stop before I get to the point where I reach out, as its simply too painful to pretend. I smile at the checkout clerk, one of the few social duties I must perform, and make my way back to my noisy silence.

I try the usual remedies, but the relief they provide is all too fleeting. Occasionally my weakness comes to light and the tears snake out, down my cheeks leaving puddles on my pillow. I often stop them before they get started, for fear letting that pain out means the pain has control. I’ve never chastised another as being weak for crying, but somehow I feel I should be stronger than the weeping.

Looking ahead should give me some respite, things to look forward to are surely there, but my mind and body betray me when I try to view the good. Something will snap me back; a worry, a pain, something to remind me that the future is unknown.