Just shut me up in a room with my sorrow. Give me a chocolate muffin to cry into. Nothing else to do with this, just survive it.
You can live a thousand days free and never quite understand depression until it’s back on you, riding you. Philosophies dry up. Hope dies. You know what it is, you can feel it come on like a sneeze, and you’ve been there before so often, so long. But nothing prepares you for it, each time it’s fresh and raw like the first, each time the adages designed to get you through it don’t come nearly close enough to making a difference in a world of grey.
Can’t you get it together? Can’t you pull yourself up?
No, and no.
All the tough talk of high times is nothing here. No sunshine, no hope, no easy ladder out. Just a sheer wall with no handholds. Now, climb. And do it with a fucking smile on your face.
These things that are so easy for everyone else – patience to deal with the day to day, including my own mistakes, escapes me. I am just back from my computer language class, in which three people almost died and the entire computer system very nearly got slammed into the wall. Took every bit of me to not do it, to not march out of there screaming obscenities. I stayed. I kept trying. If the new assistant with her sickening perfume walked past me one more time she was going to get her head smashed in. I cursed – quietly – at the computer a lot. My head went down on my arms as I just told myself to BREATHE and RELAX, you’ll get through it. No tears ’til I got the fuck out of there.
Even that meager victory feels hollow; I don’t think I did well. My sighs and mutterings were noticed. Oh, but they don’t know how fucking close they all came to death today! Maybe if they knew that they’d think better of me.
I do not want to keep taking a fucking ativan every goddamn time I feel like I can’t fucking deal. I don’t need ANOTHER fucking habit that I’ve got to fucking give up.
Now IS a time I’d like to hurt myself. Go and give myself some physical fucking pain to deal with. Make myself fucking bleed. Fucking bullshit fucking life. I never fucking asked for ANY of this.
Commitment. To ME. I’m reaching out. Emailing. Writing. Tell me it’s my bipolar. Tell me it isn’t me. Please. Tell me I’m not just fucking doing this for the attention or any of the other bad shit going on in my head. Tell me I fucking need help to get over this, that I’m doing the right thing and on the right path. Tell me I’m okay.