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It feels as if it has been a very long time since I could say that living – let alone writing – felt like flying. Lately my days have grown ever darker. This is without doubt the worst I have ever felt, and I fear there is worse still to come. Depression is binding me in, leaving me lonely, and isolated. In the end it comes down to what a person will, or will not do, rather than what they think they can, or can’t; something I should have realised a long time ago. The price for misplaced trust. I’m paying for it now.

It is a constant struggle to maintain the appearance of things-as-normal, when I am out among people. Endlessly fending off the enquiries as to why I’ve lost so much weight – how does she do it?! doesn’t she look well?! – when the truth is that ‘well’ is the last thing I’m feeling. It is hard, horribly hard, to remember how it felt to take pleasure in anything. Writing is almost impossible. All I want to do, is hide. Vanish.

There may be some of you, reading this, who will think that I haven’t said enough. Others, that I have said too much. But I will not tell the why of my darkness, so do not ask. Yet I feel that I have to tell the fact of it, or implode. I am my darkness, and my darkness is me, and I do not know how I will get through this.

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