Where am I?

I swallow two pills,
A pit in my stomach,
With all that's been going on the past few days...
The past few months...
The past few years.

I cringe as I feel them slide down my throat,
Cold water chases them.
"I actually need these. She doesn't."
Am I convincing myself?
Could I deal with this deep, dark, depression?
These manias,
Without it?
Are these mental illnesses concocted by the pharmaceutical industry?
So we can become addicted to giving them our money,
Our lives,
Our emotions?

The pink box fan on my bedroom floor sends a cold gust of wind my way.
Chills surface.

I ache inside.
My heart aches,
There are just so many things I'm questioning.
But what is the point of questioning?
When we question, we suffocate the here and the now...
The moment that we are present in,
Because questioning only lies in the past and in the future,
Never in the present.

But I can't help but fall back to that time where I was sixteen,
Extension chord wrapped around my neck,
In my closet,
Nobody home...
Dad came home early, and called my name.
Shit.
Failed.

Or that time where I took so many pills,
Chased by vodka,
And my friend found me,
On my bedroom floor,
And stuck her fingers down my throat.
Failed.
Again.

What is my purpose?
Why am I in this dismal wormhole?
Stop.
"Stop Questioning."
A voice of reason rings through the galaxies to my soul.
I hear her.