Love, Actually

I’m in love.
I’ve been engaged. I’ve been in long term relationships. I’ve never been in love before.
But, I’m also more hindered by my depression than ever before. An overwhelming numbness has been plaguing me. I seek constant stimulants: weed, alcohol, coffee, sex) anything that will let me feel a little more and a little less. I finally decided to go spend a month or so with my sister, because I literally can’t take care of myself. I go days without eating. I’m homeless in the very practical sense of the word. I hurt myself intentionally, when I need to feel more or less. I vomit food back up more often than I keep it down. I am always tired. Tired in a way that is unexplainable, going far beyond fatigue.A tiredness that rests solidly in my bones. In the follicles of my hair. In every cell of my blood. Every breathe is a tremendous effort. Every action utterly impossible.
Charlie helps.
When I’m around him I feel solace. Not always, and not all the time. But, he is solid, sturdy and certain. All the things I’ve wanted to be, but can’t grasp. I wish I could drink the strength from his mouth. I settle for squeezing myself into the tiniest shape I can, and resting under his wing for the moment. I love him. I’m close to being in love with him, or at least finally understanding the difference. But how much or little does it matter, if I’m never better?