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Nov. 22nd, 2010 10:04 pmThis is...not good.
I've been ducking my family for the past *mumblemumble*. Which, you know, standard, this is what I do, this barely even qualifies as crazy for me (it's not sane, but I can't even see sane in the rearview mirror any more. I left sane behind five years ago, I think). But tonight I was thinking about how to get out of being yelled at for it, and I maybe started making a speech to the walk-in closet in my room about how this is what my life is like now, I have a disease and it will never go away, I cannot outlast it and I cannot get rid of it, it lives inside my brain and there is nothing I can do to win, I will never ever be "better," and being told that everything I do to live with it instead of dying slowly is inadequate is — and then I started crying, mostly because right now I absolutely believe all of that.
I know that the words never and always are dangerous and almost always wrong. I know this.
But I also know that when I'm depressed, my behavior tends toward the tiny self-destruction mode. Which is to say, I withdraw, and then people get angry that I don't trust them, that they can't reach me, and then I get upset that people are (justifiably) angry at me, and withdraw more, and it just never ends well.
I think I'll text Mom tonight, and write another 300 words of this fucking essay, and go to bed and hope tomorrow will be better. Or at least bearable.
I've been ducking my family for the past *mumblemumble*. Which, you know, standard, this is what I do, this barely even qualifies as crazy for me (it's not sane, but I can't even see sane in the rearview mirror any more. I left sane behind five years ago, I think). But tonight I was thinking about how to get out of being yelled at for it, and I maybe started making a speech to the walk-in closet in my room about how this is what my life is like now, I have a disease and it will never go away, I cannot outlast it and I cannot get rid of it, it lives inside my brain and there is nothing I can do to win, I will never ever be "better," and being told that everything I do to live with it instead of dying slowly is inadequate is — and then I started crying, mostly because right now I absolutely believe all of that.
I know that the words never and always are dangerous and almost always wrong. I know this.
But I also know that when I'm depressed, my behavior tends toward the tiny self-destruction mode. Which is to say, I withdraw, and then people get angry that I don't trust them, that they can't reach me, and then I get upset that people are (justifiably) angry at me, and withdraw more, and it just never ends well.
I think I'll text Mom tonight, and write another 300 words of this fucking essay, and go to bed and hope tomorrow will be better. Or at least bearable.
