There are over 200,000 words in the English language.
More words get added every year.
Still, none are capable of describing the pain that I feel.
The happiest times in the lives of others bring me to the edge of the biggest, blackest hole.
I sit and I wait.  I want to be happy.  I want to smile and laugh and ask questions.  I want to be able to respond in a normal way.  I want to be able to share in that happiness.
But instead I can't move.  I can't breathe.  Somehow the wound that I thought was beginning to scab all of a sudden gets ripped open again.  The edges get torn a little bigger.
I want to just crawl into that hole.  But I can't.   I somehow need to move.  I need to breathe.
 Nothing will get better if I don't breathe.
So I do.
I breathe because I have to.
But once I breathe I remember how badly it hurts.
I can't stop it.
So I run.  And I write.
And I cry.