It was a slow process, for her, a gradual sinking rather than a dramatic fall. So slow that it might escape your notice, as it did hers, until you’re knee deep, waist deep, chest deep in the mud. It was the mundane things that were crumbling, no dramatic change.
The hands on the clock grew later and later each night as she slowly, finally drifted off to sleep.
Her attention became harder and harder to grasp hold of, her concentration dwindling with every lecture that she made it to.
You see, her attendance was falling too, seen less and less each week.The page count grew smaller, and more and more times her name was left absent from the register.
Quicker to get confused, her anxiety closer to bursting.
Less ticks on the to-do list, less words in the diary.
More hair pulled, more skin scratched.
Don’t keep quiet if you feel yourself falling. Reach out and ask for help. Grab hold of the hand that is reaching out for you.
The Lilies of the Field 