Right now I’m waiting for my weekly therapy appointment. It helps. But not enough. Nothing helps enough. I’ll cry myself through an hour and feel relieved for a few. All have a few items to work on that I’ll probably fail at.
The appointment is still two weeks away, but I can already tell you, you need to fix this.
The sadness, it always finds me. And I am so aware of how crazy I sound. Personifying my emotions and thoughts, but it fits so well.
Please. Please. Please fix this. I’m so god damn tired. No one can fix it. No one gets it. Well, for humanities sake, im assuming no one gets it. Jesus, so dramatic. But if my doctor or anyone else understood, they’d address the suffering with more haste. What suffering?
During every waking moment, part of me desperately wants to fucking die. I need it to be over. The self-hatred is so pure. So true. It almost feels enjoyable, that is if it didn’t focus all my energy on my own demise. Some medications have provided me moments of relief. Those moments, so beautiful. I’m jealous of how others mind must work. Life is so easy for so many.
Each morning upon waking up I need to start get out of bed. The first battle commences immediately. My thoughts are prepared for the war.
“Why get up? Life is fucking pointless and really it’d be better to opt out. No, no, no. Don’t think that. Just get up. Why can’t I think that? Do I have to lie to myself to go through the day? If lying is the only way to get through my day maybe I should opt out. Die you fuck. Oh well, get up. Get up.”
And finally I stand. If normal is what I I assignable experience on Lamictal or Adderall, the world is unjust. In a medicated state, if it is going well, everything is easier. My mind doesn’t lay seige; instead, it confronts the issue at hand.
“Lunch time, hmmm, what should I make.”
Then I proceed to get up and prepare a lunch.
I’m wary of this war. Yes, sometimes it feels like the medications work, but sometimes they don’t. For someone to understand my lows, I question their ability to empathize if they aren’t trying to anything and everything to help.
To constantly have you mind nagging about how worthless you are, to huddle and hide from humanity because you know it is true. For the only comfort to be an escape through splatter my brains on the living room wall – that is torture.
I’m so damn tired. Please. Please. Please make it stop. Not in six weeks. I’ve invested years into this. Will I kill myself over the next six weeks, unlikely. But don’t make me do it with these thoughts.
Save me from this hell. Save me from myself.