It makes me sick, the way sadness is addicting.

The way I can’t stop. Sadness is familiar.
It’s comfortable and it’s easy in a sense that it comes naturally to me.
But everything else about it is hard.
The way my body aches with self-hatred. The way my mind spins and spins with hopeless thoughts. The way it poisons everything I do, every relationship I have.

Yet it’s addicting, because I know sadness, and I know it very well.
And there’s a sort of comfort in that, like being home after a trip or sleeping in your own bed after being away. There’s just a sense that this is where I belong.
This is how it’s supposed to be.