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"I've seen Hell enough to know that it's a state of mind.

"Hell is that place you go when you're way past sad or scared or worried or insecure. Hell is that place you go when it's about time for a professional to start applying terms to your instabilities.

"It's when Depression starts being spelled with a capital D and people start telling you which meds you should be taking.

"Just because it's a state of mind doesn't mean it's easy to escape, or forget. In fact when you leave Hell, if you managed to do so alive, there will always be a part of you there, still burning in the fires and still threatening to drag you all the way back down.

"To me, that's what Hell is.

"When somebody comes along with quotes from a religious text, talk of sin and god and the devil, all I can do is laugh. To me, the only thing their books got even partially right was Hell and Heaven.

"But I've told you what Hell is to me, so let me tell you about Heaven.

"Heaven is complete and absolute silence.

"Heaven is those fleeting moments where your mind is blank and the world is just a vision and all that matters is the blissful sense of complete peace that washes over you. And then it's gone. And unfortunately, unlike Hell, it doesn't keep a part of you with it.

"Heaven is a brief reprieve from life. When you're in Heaven, that's the only time that you truly escape Hell."

I pause for breath. I take in the looks I'm receiving from around the room, or at least I try to, but I can't discern any meaning in their features. I wonder if other people will always be alien to me, or if this is something I can change.

"If it's okay I'd like to read a poem I've been tinkering with this last week. My therapist thought it would help. I don't know if it has, but I wrote it anyway."

I feel nervous, embarrassed even, but this is what the group is for: talking honestly and openly, expressing ourselves without fear. Well, I still have plenty of fear, but I can try to be open at least. I see nods from around the room, most vigorously from the group leader who has a glint in her eyes that reminds me of a proud mother.

"Okay, well I'll get right to it. The poem is called: My Hellfire."

I cough, lift up my sheet of paper in a shaking, outstretched paw and begin to read.

"Living through my Hellfire

I sit here alone, and besides,

how else would I sit in this hall of bones,

broken thrones and poor omens?

The jester plays a song upon his lyre

waking demons from where they'd retired.

All I can do is try to climb so high they won't reach me,

but I know I can't outspeed memories.

As I'm touched by fire I open my eyes to find a liar:

my reflection in the center of a mirror, tired

eyes judging me, my life balancing on a wire

between simple oblivion and the daily mire.

Still, I don't want to slip, for when you die -

I've been told by those reportedly far wiser than I -

that though your body may be cold

you'll be boiled and tortured inside.

And if in life I already sire

a world of torment in my own mind

I dread to think what lurks past the veil

between their world and mine."

I finish my reading, sit back down and wrap my tail around a chair leg, staring at the floor. For a moment there is complete quiet, and then applause. For the first time today I crack a smile.

"Thank you, but it really wasn't any good. I just wrote down how I felt."

The rest of the meeting passes by in a blur, and as I leave a couple of people tell me that they loved my poem. I can't understand why but I thank them regardless.

At home I sit on my own, playing random notes on my keyboard until I find a rhythm. The ad lib music develops and soothes me as I play it, but eventually the imperfections in my playing drown out the rest of the sound and I can't bear to go on any longer. Afterwards I curse myself for wasting time.

I do dishes, I sort out my laundry and eat some food. All of it is mechanical to the point that it barely feels like living.

I rest on my bed with my laptop and lurk over social media and art sites admiring others' lives and artistry. This is how I escape myself.

I use the last of the vodka to settle my mind and I log a mental note to buy more tomorrow.

I pull out a notepad and sketch a frog and then a dog and then a log. They all look like rejected concepts from a low budget anime. I rip out the page and set it on fire with a lighter. I hold it as it burns until the heat from the flames begins to hurt, then I toss it into the sink and wash away the remaining ash and scraps.

I return to my notebook and start writing another poem.

If the worth of a person is the sum of their skill

then I am worthless

If the worth of a person is the total of their memories

then I am worth less still

If the worth of a person is how happy they feel

then don't even get me started

If the worth of a person is something else entirely

then please let me know

I stare at the words with a blank expression. I almost set this page on fire too. Instead I simply tear it out, rip it in two and throw it in the trash.

I feel stuck. As though the hours in my days fade away before I find time to count them. It's already midnight and I need to work tomorrow so I go to bed.

Tomorrow, I'll get up and get ready and work and finish and come home and sort out the house. I'll waste time failing at making music, failing at drawing, failing at writing poetry, looking at lives I could never lead and talents I could never posses. Then I'll go to sleep and the next day I'll start all over again.

I'm trapped and isolated and every day of my life feels like wasted time as I slowly burn away in my own Hellfire, grow old and do nothing to make an impact on the world.

Happy people don't know the true meaning of words like sadness and despair. Happy people haven't seen the horrors of Hell. Happy people have no context for any of this. I wish I was ignorant like them. I wish Hell was just a fable about evil snakes and sin and eternal punishment for the wicked. I wish so much that I could be anybody other than me.

I'd make it all disappear if I wasn't so scared of what lay on the other side.

Sometimes I wonder what it'd take to make me happy.

Would a lover be enough? A family of my own? Wealth? Artistic success? Influence?

I imagine these situations playing out in my mind one after another. I imagine the joy they could bring me and I think on how different my life could be. But the worries creep in, and the pessimism, and it it all turns to ash: a whole world burned away in a blink.

Sometimes I wonder if anything would make me happy.

When I'm alone, or at work with the other drones, these are the thoughts I think. Every day I either step into the darkness or I become consumed by flame.

Time passes as clockwork turns and, while I feel every excruciating moment pass, I don't actually live through them. I am an inner layer of the Matryoshka Doll, I feel the resonance of every blow but I have no power to avoid any of them.

By the time a new weekend is upon me I realize I've fallen back into Hell. I knew this would happen. I have been waiting for it.

When you escape Hell, you don't really escape. Hell just lends you out on a leash and tugs it hard when it wants you back.

When I close my eyes I see the faces I can never forget. The parents who will never come back, the boy who I can never have, the girl who never liked me in the first place, the one who I could never let forgive me. There are more there too.

When I close my eyes I watch clips of film extracted by a master director showing me the worst moments of my life on loop. No, it's worse than that. I'm transported back to those times and, Matryoshka as I am, I can't do anything to change what I said or did or what was said or done to me, but I feel all the pain factory fresh every time.

There I am, phone pressed to my ear, tail wrapped around my waist.

"No."

That's what I had said, as though the soft spoken man on the other side of the phone could change the facts, tears in my eyes.

"Tell me this is a dream."

What a stupid thing to say.

"Tell me they're okay."

A few more moments to linger on my despair and then the scene is torn down to be replaced by a new one.

There he is and there I am, we sit together alone. I lie to him.

"It's fine, don't worry about it."

He seems nervous, unsure. He cares about me but not in the way I'd like him to. He tries to clarify something. I ignore his sincerity and lie again.

"Don't be silly, I half expected as much anyway."

Stupid lying bitch.

She's more alone than she's ever been. She's distraught and instead of admitting it, she's acting as somebody else's emotional rock.

Think for yourself you dumb bitch.

The scene dissolves to be replaced by a new one.

This goes on until I open my eyes again, but the world I see in front of me doesn't feel any more real than what I had just witnessed.

When I close my eyes I see Hell and it's demons clawing at me.

When I open them... nothing.

I go to the group because I am a creature of habit if nothing else. Before it starts a dog there tells me he couldn't stop thinking about my poem. He asks for a copy. The original is still in my bag so I give him that. He tries to refuse but I insist. Bashfully he accepts it, showering me in thanks and praise. It doesn't make any sense to me. It was clumsy and awkward and all I did was write down how I felt.

Soon enough the group starts and soon enough it's my turn to talk. A room full of eyes are drawn to me.

I pull out another sheet of paper from my bag that I barely remember putting there.

"I wrote another poem, I hope that's all right. I think maybe the first one did me a little good. Would it be okay if I read it out?"

For some unknown reason nobody objects.

"This poem has the same name as the last, My Hellfire, but it's different."

People nod as if what I said made any sense.

Their gesture gives me solace.

I hold out the paper in a steady, outstretched paw and read.

"This week, or maybe it was last,

Hell found me again so fast

I forgot who I was in days past.

But don't worry,

Hell made sure I'd remember myself in burns and blasts,

parading the mistakes of my life, with its burgeoning cast,

in front of my eyes in a nasty display

of monsters and babes

and lovers and fakes

and bodies in lakes

and so much hate

that you could never take it all in.

Today I'll admit

that if it weren't for the writ

of passage burned into my wrists

by years of hatred and clenched fists

and the flames of Hell that gave me their kiss,

I'd be long dead by now.

Last night passed by

and I met the other side

only because luck took me on a ride,

for that was the night I tried

to end my life for what felt like the final time.

But instead of taking the life

that was balanced on the edge of my knife

a drop of blood hit this page

and stole me from the reaper's scythe.

I write these words in the bedroom light

and hope that when I read them I might

feel all right again

and if that's the case then

all I'd like to say is:

thank you for listening in."

I open my eyes and find a dark ceiling staring back at me. My face is sticky with tears and my bandaged arm with blood.

I had never actually spilled my own blood before. Out of cowardice or perseverance, I don't know. Tonight was different, yet somehow I'm still here.

The world spins as my fantasy crumbles.

I could never read this poem out.

Nobody is listening, nobody cares, nobody thinks you're talented.

The group starts soon, but I'm not going.

All I have in this world is an empty home and a broken down mind and a few too many ideas for ways I could end it all.

I have a book of my own terrible poetry that I wish I had the courage to read aloud. I have opinions about myself and the ways of the world. I have nothing of worth.

I have a stable, well paid job and a few loyal friends and...

Absolutely fucking nothing else that matters a damn to me or anybody else in the world.

Is the twist of my life story that my friends don't know the real me, or is the twist that I'm still breathing?

I write another bad poem off that concept.

The only time I'm happy is when I'm with my one of my few friends. I make sure to show them the best side of myself. All the joy and excitement and care that has ever passed over me manifests itself around them, leaving me exuberant and overactive. Nobody I care about knows the real me. Nobody knows that I'm on the precipice.

Tonight I'm in Hell and I need a lifeline.

I call him. My 'therapist'.

He picks up on the first ring.

"Hi, I'm bored. Do you have time for a quick chat?" I ask, as though it's nothing.

"Oh, hey. Of course, I can always make time for you. How are things going?"

This is where I would usually lie and ruin my life a little more. Instead, something possesses me and I say:

"Not so great to be honest."

"But you're, like, the cheeriest person I know."

I sink further into myself at the comment. His words are daggers labeled: you did this to yourself. Maybe this was a bad idea, I can't expose the other half of myself to him, it would be too much. I'm his rock. I'm here to help him. He doesn't need this.

"Of course. I guess I'm just getting sick of the day-in-day-out stuff that never changes."

"Then change it," he says with surprising speed and levity.

"Come on, I know you can be a little slow, but even you should know it's not that easy."

He laughs and says: "Well I know it can be difficult to change a routine, but you can at least take a break from it. When is the last time you went on holiday?"

My turn to laugh. "Holiday? You know I'm a workaholic," my secret euphemism for isolationist introvert. "Plus, who would I go with?"

I want the impossible. I want him to say: me.

Don't worry, I know he won't. I'm not crazy, just fucked up.

"Go on your own, you're a big girl now you know. You're good with your money and I bet you can afford it, so why not go on an adventure to another country or something? Book a holiday girl."

"Who will give you advice and leech off all the juicy gossip about your sex life if I'm gone? You know I won't be paying for those extortionate overseas cellphone fees."

"You're too good with money for any of that," he says and in my mind's eye I can see him shaking his head and grinning. As his voice washes over me I get a physical flashback to our most intimate moments. He's on top of me, making love to me with a primal vigor that sends me wild. His fur on mine, the heat and the friction, the way his tail greets and twists around my own. My best friend, my lover-for-a-day, my therapist, my escape. "But you don't need to worry, we have a mutual friend who will happily take your half of the gossip while you're away. As for life advice, I'm sure I can withstand a couple weeks without you, just make sure you're not gone much longer or I guarantee my life will have turned into a convoluted erotic drama full of all sorts of love and loss. You are my most trusted adviser after all, I can't be without you for too long."

The comment makes me smile the kind of genuine smile that I haven't had in days. Trusted advisers aren't lovers, nor are best friends, but there's no use in pining for the impossible. I don't have the right parts for him. The joke is that I'm the one who made him realize that.

It's difficult for me to reconcile that love is quashed by something as unimportant as what does or does not hang between your legs, but that's how it is for most people and who am I to say they're wrong?

"And you are quickly becoming mine. Thanks for the advice wolf boy."

"No problem ferret girl."

"Hey, you never call me that."

"I just did." And with a laugh he adds. "What would you do without me, eh?"

"Hey, screw that. What would_you_ do without me?" I answer.

"You know what, I have no idea what I'd do without you." He says, a warmth and honesty permeating his words.

"Thank you for the acknowledgment," I say haughtily, but his comment touches me. I feel myself at risk of tearing up. "Bye now," I say, quickly ending the call before emotion overwhelms me.

When I close my eyes Hell shows me his perfect face. His gorgeous body. I don't think the wolf realizes it, but he is probably the most naturally beautiful person I have ever seen. Not that I'd ever admit that to him. The kicker is he doesn't even try, he just has the form and features of the gods.

Hell shows me this beauty in the knowledge that I can never have it.

Hell lets me speak to him, to hear his humor and care and natural aptitude for understanding to know that there's a person in there to match the appearance and, no, I still can't have him.

I sketch out ideas for another poem while deciding on a holiday destination. Maybe he's right, maybe getting away for a while will help me.

There is no such thing as an easy answer to a problem like this, but it's never too late to try new solutions.

I put away my notebook and stare up at the ceiling of my room, lying on my bed with eyes wide open.

Somewhere amid the darkness one word fills my mind without invitation.

Suicide.

It's an ugly word and a vicious concept.

Sometimes I think the world wouldn't miss me and that I am a burden on the people I know. Then I remember that he would miss me, that he enjoys my company, and I keep going.

You see it all the time in the news. Somebody kills themselves because they think they're all alone and that there's nobody out there who cares about them. Then, when they pass on, they leave grief in their wake. So many people did care, they just couldn't see it. So many people could care, they just didn't live long enough to find out.

I think that's tragic.

He was right to ask me what I'd do without him.

I didn't answer, but the truth is: I'd probably be dead.

Author's Note:

This note is dedicated to all of you who have ever felt suicidal, even if just for a moment.

I implore you to never lose hope. There is worth in this life and there is wonder in the world and there is beauty in you. Your life is your own and I encourage you to live for yourself, not for anybody else.

The character in this story attributes much of her strength to another and, while some people feel that way in real life, it is an illusion. Her strength is her own, she just doesn't understand that yet.

Please try to realize the strength it takes for you to even be here, reading this, and realize you are strong enough to keep going.

If you are struggling with depression or suicidal tendencies, please consider seeking professional help. It has worked for many people before and it could work for you too.

I love each and every one of you.

Thank you for reading.