Is it possible to feel so alone in a house full of people?

Is it possible to feel deeply, inconsolably sad one minute and be perfectly fine the next?

Is it possible to hide your real self so completely that even you’ve forgotten where you hid it?

Is it possible to know that your mind is so very, very messed up but not have the words to express it to anyone but yourself, and even then it doesn’t make sense?

Is it ever really possible to truly talk things out without either person feeling secretly worse while pasting on a fake smile?

Is anything really possible? Are dreams and goals useless when you wish to be hit by every car you see, jump out of every window you pass, down every pill bottle you find, cut every vein and watch yourself bleed dry?

Even as I write this, I know its wrong. That I shouldn’t feel this way; probably wouldn’t ever do these things. But that’s just it. Probably. Probably can turn into maybe and maybe can turn into definitely.
But when? How long does it take to fall hard into the arms of depression? To stay forever locked in its suffocating embrace? No way to get free, no way to scream for help, especially when you try to hide it from everyone with every smile and every word spoken.


Maybe I’m being melodramatic. Or maybe, just maybe, I’m being real.