Softly, he'll ask
me once more."Is it getting that bad
again?" Worry laced within his voice,
a worry that made my gut chrun in silent guilt; a guilt
that was threatening to consume me. Silently I shrugged,
not sure how to answer that. Because, that's what
he—no one—seems to get. It's not
getting that bad again, because it
never got better. It's not a
high and low thing, there are no more good and
bad days. There's bad days and
there are unbearable days. It's a
constant struggle just to keep going. But, "I'm
doing alright, I guess." is all that I
say.
