I hate my broken brain, I hate the constant pain and suffering. I hate the fear, the anguish, the endless rumination. I hate that I'm stuck here in the dark, with a candle and a little light, cold and snug and just so, so my mind doesn't implode. I hate the one's who broke me, I hate that I'm alone, trapped by the pandemic and the fact that family can't really support me. Six months ago I was normal, stressed out of my gourd, but normal. I could live, I had fun, and yes my job was stressing me completely out, but it hadn't shattered me yet. Now I just survive, taking a shower or cooking a meal is an ordeal, because it gives my brain pause to torment me. I hate my broken brain.