As usual, I chickened out. I had things I needed to tell my counselor, but couldn’t. I trust him a lot, and I wanted to tell him. I wanted to tell him how bad I’ve been doing. How horribly alone I feel. How afraid I am. How I feel like dying a lot of the time. All I could do is sit there in pain, half there, half not. Half wanting to cry, half not able to. What do I fear… I have not a friggin clue. But I know it’s hard to keep control when like that.
The last time I can remember feeling this badly, I was in grad school. I’m not as bad as I was then, but darned close. Which isn’t saying much, because I very nearly didn’t make it through that time.
There are questions that people ask me, that stick with me. One such question is “What needs to be done for you to be happy?” I absolutely hate that question, and nothing good could come of me telling the answer. The answer is death. Right now that’s the only thing that I can see stopping this. I’ve done everything I can to make things better. I’ve tried the whole counseling bit. I’ve done the meds.
I don’t want to be hospitalized. Then everyone would know about the depression. Most people don’t know about the depression, and I want to keep it that way. Every one would know how crazy I am, how weak I am. At least if I died, then I wouldn’t have to face anyone afterwards. People would get over my death rather easily. It’s not like my life is important to anyone.
I’m not saying I’m going to go out and kill myself. But at the same time, I’m not saying I have any hope left that things will get better.