The Hole

 I’m in a hole so deep right now I’m not even sure where the bottom is anymore.

Every time I think I’ve reached it, the ground shifts, and I fall further.

I’m trying — God knows I’m trying — to claw my way back up.
I’m sending out resumes like throwing paper planes into a hurricane.
Apply, apply, apply. Jobs I’m qualified for, jobs I’m overqualified for, jobs I don’t even want.
I don’t care about the title, the location, the pay — I just want something, anything, to make this chaos stop.
To feel like I’m not completely useless.

I don’t even count how many applications anymore.
Numbers stopped mattering after the first fifty.
All I know is, my inbox is full of polite rejections and even politer silences.

People like to tell me “Don’t give up” or “Your time will come” like they’re handing out fortune cookie wisdom.

They don’t see me at 3 a.m., staring at job boards with red, tired eyes, wondering what the hell is wrong with me.

They don’t see me rehearsing my worth into a cover letter while secretly wondering if I even have any left.

I’m angry.
Angry at the scam that wiped me out.
Angry at the marriage that’s crumbling like wet paper in my hands.
Angry at myself for still loving someone who’s already gone cold.
Angry at the world for letting people like me drown in plain sight.

Mostly, though, I’m tired.
Tired of trying to sound “professional” when I feel like I’m breaking apart.
Tired of carrying this mask of resilience while screaming inside.
Tired of starting over and over and over again like it’s some sick joke.

I’m not sure what to do anymore.
I’m not sure who I’m supposed to be anymore.

Some days, I think if I could just stop moving, stop applying, stop trying for five minutes, maybe the world would stop demanding so much of me.

But then I remember the bills, the judgment, the endless noise, and I force myself back into the grind.

Everyone says rock bottom is where you rebuild.
But no one talks about how lonely it is down here.
How quiet it gets when no one’s cheering for you anymore.
How heavy it feels to keep showing up to a life that keeps slamming doors in your face.

I’m in the hole.
And I’m trying to climb.
But right now, my hands are bleeding, my knees are raw, and my hope is paper-thin.

Still, I write.
Still, I apply.
Still, I breathe.

Not because I’m strong.

But because I don’t know what else to do.