Depression is a bitch.

Not a good brain day. Trigger warning.

Having another one of those days where continued existence is annoying.

I don’t know if I would term it “Suicidal“? I mean, it likely is. But it also feels like the universe is telling me no one needs me around, no one wants me around.

I feel completely disconnected from myself. Like I’m in some weird first person perspective game and I’m watching everything happen and watching the waddling corpse that is my body just wander around screwing things up.

That’s that whole disassociation thing, yeah? It’s better than trying to off myself again, I suppose. Better numb than dead?

But gods do I hate this.

I don’t know what would help. I mean, to get people to stop offering me strawberries while I’m feeling self destructive might be helpful. I’m having a really hard time eating in general. I had a hot pocket this morning, water for lunch. The last two nights dinner has been a couple of slices of provolone cheese before crawling into bed.

I don’t know what’s wrong. I feel akin to Sisyphus and his endless labor. But unless I should have been dead already, which given my life, questionable lifestyle choices, and piss-poor coping mechanisms for the longest time is entirely possible, I haven’t knowingly cheated Death?

I have this mantra, the barest bones of which is: “It’s just a chemical imbalance“.

But why can this invisible weight hang so much like an albatross?

Why am I like this? How do J make it stop?

It’s the quicksand that cartoons always warned us of, that smothering quagmire Of Self-loathing and isolation that makes you stare your own meaningless existence right in the face.

I don’t know what it is. Some people get along just fine having gone through much worse. But I feel like I have this suitcase that I am physically attached to; it holds the missing pieces of me.

It holds the jumbled mess of the rest of me. Those broken off by trauma, by rape, by stress and loss and chaos. It is mixed in with bits chipped away by chronic fatigue, vitamin deficiency and years of malnutrition. The shards I cleaved off myself with poor choices or inaction; there may be jars of missing serotonin, gamma-aminobutyric acid, iron, and dopamine in there. Or maybe those were left in a truck stop bathroom somewhere along the way, like the Bluetooth headset I had bought myself that other time I traveled a thousand miles looking for something that I never found.

I know things are better. I know I have people that care. But I don’t know how to actually be someone they would want to be around.

I want hugs. And to know that I’m not some ungodly burden. And maybe some tacos. At least I know I can buy the latter.

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