Life like a hole

I'm in a hole. Its approximately twelve feet in diameter, and probably forty feet deep. The walls of the hole are shaped like my bedroom, decorated like my bedroom, but the doors have been removed and the only way to escape is through scaling up over my bed and persistently jumping until I can grab a grip on the rim of the edge.

It is an all time low. I have never been this down and out. Every semblance of stability that I had held onto for the past eight months is gone. Everything that I thought I knew, that I thought was a tangible something I could hold onto is gone.

I don't want to make myself out to seem like a pity party, because I'm not. I don't want pity, I don't want help. I don't want people to throw in ropes and try to get me out. This is one of those situations where I have to pull myself out, even if I lose a little part of my sanity in the process.

It would be so easy to just call Rob and tell him to come back. It would be so easy to just grab a job anywhere, any place that is hiring and become part of that family, too. But I don't want to just be reabsorbed into a new life, either. I want to feel this pain, this misery, and I want to write it down and remember how it felt.

It feels kind of like being in a hole. It feels kind of like no matter where you go, what you do, all the walls of every room are following you, watching you, and waiting to come down on you. It feels kind of like you're going to be slapped at any second, punched and ripped apart. Like things will come out of the darkness and point and laugh. It feels kind of like you're the last person on earth, and everyone else is a robot programmed to never have genuine emotion, like you feel. That's how it feels.