I feel like I want to cry all the time, but I'm incapable.
Crying, for me, is something that happens less than once a year, in general. I don't get sad. It sublimates, instantly, to either anger or apathy (this is why I'm almost always angry, I suppose).
This is not the time to tell me to relax and let go. It won't work. I've tried.
I hate being a broken human. And all the king's Prozac and all the king's Gabitril can't put John back together again.
One bright spot:
Football started for real today. I love football because it is one of the very few things in my life that repays me with as much passion as I put into it. One week down, four glorious months to go.