It is such a suffocating feeling to cry for help, and the only one who answers is yourself. There's a desperation, a loneliness, an abandonment. It might not even be real. There might be those poised to help... but timing is everything. It is noble to want to help, to truly mean to help... but sometimes the drowning in the fog occurs so suddenly that it only seems to reinforce the fear of being alone in a world full of people. Like dehydrating on a raft surrounded by salt water. Well meaning and close to what you need, but inadequate at that moment and deadly. In the end, we accept compromise. We redefine "must do" and we redefine "okay" so that we stay a breath longer in the fog without succumbing. Knowing we're loved, but finding that sometimes that isn't enough. So... maybe we cry out again... and we redefine how we view the fact that only we respond. Maybe, just maybe, that can be okay. Maybe, we find strength and courage that we didn't know we had, because the alternative is not acceptable. And maybe, in time, ours is the voice we listen to first in the replies to our cries for help. Maybe.