I am in a deep, bleak hole. I seem to be miles below the ground. I can see a speck of light, when I look above. I do not look above. My head hangs low. The sides of the hole compress my entire body. It is difficult to move my body. It is difficult to breathe. I can breathe enough to stay in the hole, but not enough to get out. I hear people. They are outside the hole. Above. Where life continues. Life stays still in the hole. The people are calling to me. I can hear them. I cannot hear what they are saying. I think they want to help me. It feels as though they smother me. It is hard to tell right from wrong in here. Real from fake. The only ones I understand, are those who live inside their own holes. Seemingly silos, yet not quite. I can climb into them, and they to me. Normies cannot climb in. The darkness is soul crushing. It is comforting. I know it is wrong. It feels so right. I am in a dream. I am wide awake. I want to climb out. I want to die in here. Feel the sun on my face. Live under torrential skies. Breathe. Choke. Laugh. Cry. Strong. Weak. Beg. Praise. How can all these things coexist? How can I reconcile the thoughts of my fractured mind? Should I try? Should I care? Hole me and grounded me are at odds. We know each other intimately. We have inhabited the same brain forever. We love each other. We hate each other. He and I in a never ending wrestle to conquer the brain. Trying to live with one voice. What are the other options. He is me. I am him. This seems too hard. Too difficult for me to do. To climb out, or even part way. The ladder was taken out by some unseen force. I fell into the hole out of nowhere. I was me. I was not me. I tumbled for what felt like an eternity. I was nearly glad when I reached the bottom. The bottom does not move. I know where I stand. I do not know why. Where is enough, when you are at the bottom. I cannot see my loved ones here. I cannot return their love and compassion. They do not understand. They are not in here with me. My hole mates are all that comforts me. It perplexes my family, friends, and healers. It enrages them. How are insanos your new best friends. You will not talk to us. We love you. They do not know you. The insanos make me feel less insane. You make me feel more. There is a colossal chasm between you and me. You tell me what to do. They listen to what I say.

In the past, when I have partially crawled up the walls of the hole, it has made everything worse. That half in between place. Not well. Not sick. Go to work. Still act out. People expect great things when you improve at all. When things slide back, they get angry. It is easier in the hole. You are expected to be miserable. Outside, people expect instantaneous wellness. That is not realistic. I would like to stay in my hole. It is safe there. I do not have to think.

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