Rollercoaster.

Things I did today:

  • Woke up and stayed awake.
  • Managed to take meds.
  • Washed dishes.
  • Cleaned litterboxes.
  • Started cleaning up my Internet footprints.
  • Finished reading a book.

 

I also finally told my closest friend that I’d hit suicidal levels this week and apologised for piling it on her. The reaction was an understandably mixed one of “I’d rather you told me” and “oh god I don’t want to hear this”.

I really do feel it pointless to burden what friends I have with depressing shit they can’t fix or otherwise help; thus far, two of them have said it doesn’t seem fair, that I should be able to talk about it. I’d discuss it if it helped me feel better in some way, but it doesn’t. It feels more like an inevitability at this point.

I guess that’s what this blog is for: letting me spew quietly into the void rather than asking my friends to catch the rocks I’m throwing. I don’t want to hurt them.

Part of me is intent on keeping my promise to my cats, or at least the one that proved to be my therapy cat. Part of me just wants to leave already.

I realised recently that my situation is not unlike the Rat Park experiment. I’m mentally and physically incapable of getting out of my current circumstances, which results in a lot of crushing despair, to put it mildly, and I end up engaging in self-destructive behaviour — either drinking alcohol or things that result in me bleeding — because I have nothing else to do. I’d definitely be drinking a lot more if I had the money to.

Ironically, I wouldn’t be drinking if financial stress didn’t comprise a large chunk of my despair. My various illnesses prevent me from keeping a regular job, and any money I’d earn via self-employment would be deducted dollar for dollar from what government income I have now. There’s just no way out except the permanent one.


I feel like such a hypocrite trying to help my friends when I feel this way.

 

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