It’s that time again. Where I feel like nothing, where I am nothing, and where what I want to be is literally nothing — as in dead.

While I’m swimming in the depths suicidal ideation, Jose walks in, and sees me lying in bed for the third day in a row.

Sighing, he puts down his keys.

“What are you doing?” he asks me. I can hear the disappointment in his voice, but it’s even easier to read on his face.

I want to lie and say I just laid down, but I’m afraid that my brain is far too foggy to keep the story straight, so I don’t.

His eyes meet mine and as soon our eyes lock, I can feel the hot sting of tears springing to my eyes. Fuck. I'm so tired of crying.

I can tell by his expression that he thinks I’ve lost my mind. He stares at curiously as if he is trying to figure out what’s wrong with me. He gives me an inquisitive glance, inviting me to explain myself, but I can’t.

I just shake my head. I can’t seem to get the words out of me, almost as if I’ve temporarily gone mute.

Just when I find the words on the tip of my tongue, the sobs begun. He waits hopefully in the doorway. His face is expectant, impatient and this only makes me cry even harder.

Frustrated, he leaves the room shaking his head. I let him.

A deep sense of hopelessness has set in my bones along with a heavy fatigue. I can’t even seem to move. It’s all so dramatic and I hate every minute of it and every part of it, including me. Maybe even me the most.

The treacherous sense of despair, tugs at my willingness to exist. It’s winning.