The Cost of Disconnection. . . (Lost connections)
Silence isn’t just quiet. It’s a weight. It follows me, settling into my bones, coating every moment like a fog. I hear it in the absence of a message, in the stillness of nights spent staring at the ceiling. This isn’t loneliness. It’s absence. Not just the absence of company, but the absence of being seen. Of being understood. Of having anyone to reach for when the weight becomes unbearable. There’s no one. No one to sit across from and say, I don’t think I’m okay. So I don’t say it. I just survive it. Surviving is excruciating. The thoughts have nowhere to go. No one to break the cycle of self-hatred that plays on repeat. They fester, multiply. They wait, vultures circling, ready to tear me apart. Writing is my only release. That, and therapy. But therapy is just one hour a week. One hour to untangle everything I’ve buried. After the session ends, I’m right back where I started, alone in my head. I talk to myself constantly. Some of the questions try to understand: Why do I ...
