Sometimes I feel like I’m losing my mind. My brain is tangled in spiderwebs, threads of thought weaved together that are too fragile and sticky to decipher. I’m lost in the shadows.

My inability to concentrate and my mounting anxiety have left me unable to work, again. I’m…incredibly frustrated. I never believed that I would end up here after the last time. Life is dull. Stagnant.

Yesterday I went to the ER. It was a really uncomfortable and disappointing experience, one that I didn’t even want to have in the first place. But my doctor had insisted I go.

“I’m not feeling suicidal right now,” I’d protested. “Is it really necessary?”

He gazed at me behind his glasses, sympathetic and compassionate. “Yes, I understand, but…you’re a bit of a mess.” He said it gently but firmly. Then he wrote “referred to crisis center” on my APR and faxed it to my work.

When you feel like you’re drifting endlessly, unable to find your way out or in, it’s easy to follow someone else’s decisions. It’s so much easier when people decide for you. I’m just so damn tired. I’m fucking exhausted. And I really don’t know how to fight these feelings of perpetual despair, this strange, creeping fear that’s constantly at my back. I wish it had a face, something I could physically fight and destroy with my hands. Maybe that’s why I love video games so much. There’s the enemy, kill it. There’s your teammate, save them. Win. That objective I can understand, these mechanics I can learn.

Depression is a lot trickier. Depression is a parasite, but these meds aren’t expelling it.

So I wake up and try again.


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