My soul is like an old glass bottle, very fragile, with lots of tiny cracks all over it. In that bottle are tiny, razor-sharp pieces of metal. That's pain. Anytime someone or something hurts me, another piece is added. The bottle gets fuller and fuller. Eventually it's so full I just can't take it anymore.

I show it to my family and my friends. They try to empty it by saying things like, "Just put a smile on your face, you'll feel better." Or, "Why didn't you just leave him?" Or, "It's just the blues." That has the same effect as sticking their finger into the bottle and pushing the pieces in, compacting them. They don't mean to do that. They're trying to help. But all they do is make more room for more pieces to go in.

So I take it to my doctor. He's a doctor, he'll know how to fix it. But all he does is drop in some pills and put a Band-Aid on the bottle, and hands it back. My tears wash away the Band-Aid.

I bring it to the church. They say that depression is a sin. That's just great. My pain is causing God pain and now I'm going to hell. I thought I was already there.

I finally get up the courage to take it to a professional. One of them looks at the bottle, examines the pain, then forgets it two days later. One of them looks at it for five minutes and tells me that my pain is because I'm a middle child. One of them looks at it for two visits then tells me that I'm fine and if I ever need help again, don't be afraid to call. Like two hours is going to heal all that pain.

So I get down on my knees and I offer the bottle up to God. I say, "Daddy, please take this away." And He smiles at me, and gently takes the bottle. He tips it over, but nothing happens. He can't pry out the pain because my faith is so broken.

I take back the bottle, and I set it down, and I guard it with my life. I hide it because it is so ugly to look at. There are so many better bottles - nicer bottles, prettier bottles, younger bottles. I don't let anyone come near it because it's so awful to be near. I'm afraid to meet a new friend because that person might see the bottle. I just want the damn thing gone. Cut it, drop it off a cliff, fill it with pills. But what would happen then? Would I be welcomed Home, or would I be damned for barging in where I'm not invited? I go to bed praying that it goes away while I sleep, I wake up and the goddamn thing is still there. I've had it for a long time. Thirty-five years of filling that bottle. Not weeks, not months. Years. 12,000 days.

~Skya