The thing

about this is that it will always be your own battle. Your own. No one else's. Not even your mother's.
The silence of the house is yours. The cords- of the laptop, of the cell phones, of the camera- entangled; they are yours too. And the slight thud in your temples that gives you that familiar headache. They are all yours. You've tried so often not to be in this place. You've tried. But when you get here, it always feels like the names on the contact list of your cellphones are just alphabets and what they spell could never be people in blood and skin. When you're here, everyone shuts you out. Everyone has friends. Everyone is happy. Everyone. You do not know how to deal with this place. You know you've been here before. Left. But you do not know how to, while you're here. You know you're being dangerous to yourself. You want someone to call. To reach out and tell you anything at all. But it's the only times when you have no emails in your inbox and no text messages in your cell phones. The landline won't ring. Even he doesn't understand. Or perhaps you've becoming so good at it, he doesn't realize that you're not. So he just decides not to write down a prescription. Only talk. But you come home and you're in that place again. Again.