Another night

Half the month is already up. But I didn’t do anything with it. It’s 6:30 PM right now. I slept through the weekend. I just microwaved a frozen dinner, which was rice and paneer in a masala, which means sauce. My empty, dirty wine glass from Friday night is sitting here next to the couch, as well as pretzels which are turning stale. I didn’t eat or get out of bed all weekend. Again. I didn’t know that soy milk could mould. I usually finish it way ahead of expiration date. But I took one drink and it tasted mouldy, so I had to throw it out. I have to shower. I don’t want to. When you’re depressed, showering is one of the hardest things.

My roommate is in the other room, on her phone, laughing. I hate having roommates. I pretty much hate my life. I hate my job. I hate being alone. I hate having to sleep on weekends because I don’t know what else to do with myself. Part of me hates that I’m alive. Life would be so much easier if I were dead. Then I wouldn’t have to live.

I’m not seeing my therapist this week. Why did I do that? I wanted to prove to him that I’m doing better. And prove it to myself, I think, mostly. I love seeing him every week. There are also moments when I hate him for asking such difficult questions. I miss him. Even if it’s only for that one hour a week, and residual lasting hours of the effects of that conversation, he always manages to make me feel better.

Christmas is almost here. It’s only a three-day weekend for me so I’m thinking of staying in town and doing nothing rather than traveling to see my family. This is how my mom invited me: “If you’re on your meds and stable, I guess you can come”. That did not make me feel loved. She later apologized, which meant a lot to me. I told her she had hurt my feelings and she later confessed, she probably just didn’t know how to handle “it”. It, being my mental illness.

I wish I could die. That’s how I feel right now. I think that’s how a lot of depressed people feel. They want some easy way out, a peaceful, painless death. Unfortunately, most paths to that end are traumatic and painful. There is no pleasant way to go. I’ve stopped cutting myself. It has been almost a year since I last picked up a knife directed at myself. Also, almost a year since that last traumatic hospitalization. I shouldn’t have called the suicide hotline. I could have made it through. But where would I be now? Likely not in this city, not in this roommate situation.

If I want to live on my own I have to maintain employment, and then hope for a better job down the line. I have to go to work tomorrow even though I don’t want to. I have to do these work projects which my employer assigned to me which I don’t want to do, which involves calling clients and getting them into the office for appointments. I hate my job and everyone around me knows it. I’m sure it even shows at work but they haven’t fired me yet.

I’m not paranoid. I just know that I’m uncomfortable in my own skin. I’d rather be in bed right now, watching the time pass by slowly, yet quickly. I don’t know how this coming week is going to be. I don’t have the ability or mindset to think positively. That would be the worst kind of advice to give me. I wish I could think positively, but everything is blaring down at me in a negative cloud of bad thoughts. All I can think of are bad things. I recently read Immaculee’s “Left to Tell” about her experience in the Rwandan holocaust in 1994 and ever since then I’ve had disgusting images of death on my mind. It really messed with me, that book. Someone gave it to me, so I felt obligated to read it, and I didn’t make it to the end. I feel like I’m going crazy just thinking of those things.

I’m always and constantly dehydrated. I never drink enough. I look at my co-workers with their big bottles of water, thinking, I wish I were like that. All I drink is caffeine throughout the day. My mom asked me yesterday if I eat vegetables, and the true answer is “no”. But I told her sometimes at lunch during the week when I go out. I eat at Rubio’s five days a week. Getting the same thing every day is tiring but also comforting.

I have to crawl back into bed now. It misses me. I need my stuffed animal to keep me company. I don’t know how I’m going to survive the week, but somehow I always do. It’s up to me to make changes in my life, but all I have energy for is sleeping in my bed. I don’t have energy to look for another apartment so I can move. I would be sleeping all day there as well, but I would at least have the place to myself.

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