Living on the edge

Tonight, I'm overwhelmed
and have an overwhelming need
to communicate that.
I tend to panic,
feeling that I must reach out for help.
Then I talk myself out of it:
what a Dramatic Thing that would be
to announce on Facebook.
I can't talk to my family.
I don't want any of my closest friends
to feel burdened
or responsible for me
or for the stupid behaviours
I occasionally slip into.
Fortunately, often I feel too blah
to actually do any of the things.

While desperate to tell it how it is,
I'm completely unable to be specific
or to say its name.
This is regrettable and annoying.
It results in confusion,
and attention which I work so hard to avoid,
"You OK hun?"
I end up making work for myself
by having to explain that
no, it's not X, or Y, or Z.
I don't think I'm neurodiverse.
I don't have a personality disorder
or delusions.
Also, I'm not bipolar,
despite compelling appearances
to the contrary.
I totally understand why everyone thinks so
but to say I am would be an insult to those that are.
I am not.

The best I can do is describe how I feel:
as flat as a pancake.
Drained, cold, motionless
yet stirred up inside
by some clawing desperation.
I feel that if you were to look inside,
I would have cold grey ink
instead of warm red blood.
There are many things I love to do
but they seem like faraway dreams;
things that used to interest me
but aren't possible right now.
Sometimes it's helpful to fall asleep...
until I'm too far gone,
when dreams become nightmarish too.

I didn't know what to do
and so I wrote about it.
This is no work of art,
but it helped
a little bit.