Some days I wake up with a weariness so deep in my soul, I can’t help but cry.
I don’t even know why.
In those days I feel so very old, like I’d lived a thousand lifetimes. The weight of my past transgressions is an ache that’s almost unbearable, and the guilt I suffer but can’t comprehend is eating me up alive.
Nobody really understands what I’m going through. They call it with many names – PMS, depression, mood swings, loneliness, waking up on the wrong side of the bed, aftermath of a bad dream – but they never come close. Some even hurtfully say that I’m nothing but a drama queen and an attention whore. I’ve given up trying to defend myself.
So I just curl up in my bed, and cry until I fall back to sleep.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.