Here, it is Purgatory.

Here, you cannot say a word without fear of apprehension or a complete breakdown.
Here you cannot speak your mind.
If you manage to do so, the words are labelled as faulty and returned to the sender.
You must pretend to survive here.
You must lie and allow them to perceive your mental state at a certain limit described commonly as “okay.”
You’re okay here.
You’re appreciative here.
You are seemingly alive, enjoying the little things that give you hope.
You are depressed here.
You do not enjoy a word from their lips.
You cannot bring yourself to confirm the fact that you wish you were dead, but it sits there, simmering under the surface, about to boil over.
You stay awake as much as you can, trying to salvage some form of control; trying to make up for lost time spent withering away.
Time better spent on someone worthy.
Time better spent on something to spend it on.
Time better spent on something useful.
Something productive.
Someone worth while.
Someone not so disgraceful.
Someone not so pathetic.
Someone not so paranoid.
Someone not so insane.
Someone not you.
You keep these thoughts under the foam rising to the top, struggling to hold them down.
Carbonated, they fizzle and hiss in their presence.
Here, it is Purgatory.
A massive entanglement of stressful events chipping away at your health.
You try to stay occupied.
You try to stay distracted.
You try to stay stable.
You try to keep yourself from imploding on the spot.
You manage.
You don’t know how to cope.
You stay silent.
What is more important?
What means more to you?
Is it worth the risk?
Is it worth the loss of trust?
No.
It is not.
Is it worth the sacrifice?
Is it worth it; harming your friends for your own selfishness?
Is it easy?
Is it something that wouldn’t faze you, leave you blank and closed?
No.
It isn’t.
How do you escape?
You do not.
You can’t.
It’s not plausible.
How do you manage to survive?
You don’t.
The years pile on to build a cinderblock wall, thousands of miles high; an immobile force trapped with you in a glass bottle.
Your words are worthless.
Your actions are worthless.
You want to get it over with.
But you cannot.
You aren’t allowed to do so.
You can’t.
You won’t break a promise but will you remember it when you’re on the edge?
Who’s to say you won’t forget?
Who’s to say it won’t get lost in the malevolent miasma clawing at the back of your throat?
Everything else seems to fade away.
You are left with two figures.
If you go with one, you are promised happiness.
You are promised escape.
You are promised salvation.
You are promised change.
You are promised the world.
The other holds nothing.
The other holds no change.
The other holds cold, biting into your skin with every touch.
The other melts and sticks to you like super glue, refusing to be let go lest it scream.
You cannot go with the former.
You are stuck with the latter, for as long as it wishes to hold you.
There isn’t a moment’s rest.
There isn’t a moment of quiet.
Nothing is left for you.
Nothing.
Only this.
Only Purgatory.
Trapped.
For as long as it wishes to contain you.
Your stomach growls, but you refuse to move from your personal cavern.
If you move, you risk confrontation.
You risk responsibilities placed on your back that were never yours to begin with, exposing your failure and withdrawal and cracking your spine one vertebrae at a time.
Why bother?
There is no reason to continue.
There is no reason to push forward.
There is no reason to reconcile with the past which held happiness.
There is no reason to look to the future and hope that it looks better than the past.
It is just as dark.
The days are crawling.
Every second is a millennium, using every possible tactic to drag itself out.
Every hour is a small forever.
Every day is painstakingly slow, inching it’s way along.
Any saving grace is crushed over time.
Any saving grace is destroyed.
There will be no savior.
There will be no escape.
For as long as it wishes to hold you, you will be held.
For as long as it wishes to trap you in feelings described as “not okay,” you will be trapped.
Here, it is Purgatory.
And it is yours.