One slice of one day...today.

10:20 AM

And I’m just sitting here with my brain revving in blank little circles.  Just fighting anxiety nausea and despair and fear of the maybes.  There are so many.  Last night I tried to be hopeful, tried to sleep hopefully, thinking that I might wake up without this horrible thing that happens to me every day.  This thing that makes me want to hide in fear, further sabotaging myself.  Goddess help me, please. 

I watch people come and go in on chat, and no one reaches out to me most of the time.  It scares me.  I’m alone.  I wish I could revel in the isolation.  I wish I could become bitterly motivated by it. I’ve done that before.  I can’t find that now.  I’m so tired. My body aches.  It’s depression.  I fucking hate myself for having to admit it, again.  Always again.  Always. And is this doing me any good. Finally writing out what’s happening.  Forcing myself brutally, to write it, wanting to scream with every word, knowing no one would hear me anyway, because I’ve been screaming for months.  For a while I tried to make myself heard.  Tried so hard.  The people I reached out to, the ones I was supposed to reach out to, wouldn’t hear me.  Wouldn’t listen. 

Now finally it’s almost over, but I’m terrified I can’t even force myself to keep paddling until I get to the end, until this last thing either works or doesn’t.  I’m terrified of losing today’s battle not to give up, this moment’s battle, this second’s battle.  I don’t want to die, but I wish I was dead.  Is that a conundrum?  Does the fact that I’m wondering whether or not it is mean I’m OK, or not?