It’s not shaking, and crying, and screaming until your throat burns. It’s not tidal waves of emotions, quickly drowning you. It’s not blood running down your wrists, staining your flesh red. It’s not popping pills, and drinking whiskey. It’s laying in your bed at three in the morning, surrounded by darkness, and staring at the wall. It’s the heavy feeling that settles deep in your bones, the ache in the depths of your chest. It’s feeling guilty that you’ve stayed in bed all day—yet again—but not having the energy to get up. It’s wanting to do better, to be better, but not knowing how to anymore. Most of all, it’s the “out of place” feeling, as though you just don’t belong here anymore, and your time is up.