jacob chesney

Hopeless is a word I'm not allowed to say.

When it leaves my mouth, people rush to my aid, giving me affirmations, debating me, trying to convince me I'm wrong.

​

I can't say that I'm hopeless, even if I am.

When I do say it, people with good intentions try to attack me.

​

"You have so much to live for. There are so many people who love you. It would be the worst decision you ever made. You're so good at what you do."

They say.

​

What am I supposed to do when I can't name that which ails me most?

​

So then I'm not allowed to think of hopelessness. When I think of hopelessness, my well-intentioned thoughts bring out their best defense.

​

"You're not supposed to think this way. It isn't true. It isn't logical or rational. Did you take your medicine today? Have you been in the sun today? When was the last time you exercised? You have to stop this."

I hear.

​

When all the encouragement and admonishment have stopped, and I now know that I shouldn't say it, think it, or feel it, I suppose there's only one other option:

​

submit to it.