I don’t fucking know if I can take this anymore and I’ll apologize now for ranting about it (again) here. I haven’t gotten any confidants in real life, except for my ex and I’d rather spare him the worry right now with his already-full plate.
I just don’t know what to do.
I improve. Meds work. I’m as stable as I can hope to be, going at a goddamned snail’s pace. I’m tentatively, for the most part, functioning. I keep the house, that I’m now responsible for, in relatively decent condition. I feed my cat, bathe and aim for some bits of social interaction every couple of weeks. I work, pretty much on a daily basis, and even have to, you know, get out of the house and drive to do so. I’ve even been paying my bills, attending therapy regularly, repeating shitloads of positive talk and trying to keep down negative influences to a minimum.
Yet, here I am. After only a few days ago when I was quasi-depressed about the plight of people who have it much worse off than I do. And here’s the absolutely fucking hilarious part… this crept up on me with little warning or fanfare. Ya see, I always struggle and assume that will be something I deal with forever. I’m used to having suicidal ideation as second nature and having to force myself to do menial tasks that end up, somehow, becoming phobias for me. I figure that if I simply persevere and continue the good fight with the tools that I have, I will eventually overcome enough to be a productive member of society and at least marginally content with my lot.
But this last episode has about sent me around the bend. The slide has hit so damn fast that I’m not even sure when it started. I just know that I almost immediately went from thinking “Gee, a couple of days off in a row ought to get me back up to speed.” to the paranoid “If I quit my job, that’ll garner me a week or so.” to the unfreakingly unbelievably fucked up “Maybe that whole ‘agoraphobia’ thing wasn’t so bad. I mean, if I can’t kill myself, being a dependent almost-vegetable for the rest of my ::: scoff ::: natural born days wouldn’t be so bad, now would it?” Good God no. Not again.
I think I can handle bouts of anxiety, fear and general down-in-the-dumpedness. Also, barely keeping my head above water is only frustrating, not damning. Even stress, the psycho Addams family from hell, poverty and being plain ol’ butt ugly. But the suddenness and the straight drop into hell is wearing thin. Mightily so.
I’ve got an emergency call into both my therapist and my regular doctor (to see if there’s anything I can do physically). Shortly, if things progressively decline, I will call the ex, who is unfortunately out of town at the moment anyway (Hi rain! I do so appreciate it when you don’t waste any opportunity to go ahead and fucking POUR!!), to drop everything and babysit. But until then, I’ll vent and ramble and hate myself and talk too much and seek out any advice offered. Or even a kick in the ass, if need be. Whatever it takes to get me through the night without OD’ing on what little vodka I have left.
And damn if I no longer have any psych hospital stays left on the insurance. A state facility may end up not looking as scary as typically. Of course, then I’d lose every fucking thing I’ve been working for over the past decade. Which is shit, because I like what little I have and don’t aspire to anything more. But what the hell? I might not have anything better to do.
Unless ECT, which terrifies me, qualifies. 
Fuck my imbalanced, pathetic, unhealthy so-called brain. I want a recall and peace, not necessarily in that order.
. You need to truly accept your problems and face them head on. Do not rely on the Adams family or your ex to carry you through. You are not a baby, you are a grown adult and sometimes adults have to face things with out a safety net.
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