A Mean Idea to Call My Own
I slept in and skipped out on my morning writing again. With Stef gone this evening, though, I was able to get the paper started. The real trouble has been fighting off this depression, which grows and grows each day. It’s become paralyzing. I can’t concentrate during the day. I can’t concentrate at night. I find myself bursting into tears in the bathroom at work and I’m never really sure why. The thing that frightens me the most is that it’s not going to get any easier. How much longer am I going to last?
At this point, I sound like the boy who cried wolf. The truth is, I’m the boy crying for help. And I keep crying for it because I don’t know how to help myself. There isn’t a single thing in my busy life that I can give up right now, so the stress continues to rise. I can’t seem to shake the fear of going into work each day, the fear of being yelled at for being incompetent. I need a vacation, but I’m not going to get one anytime soon.
Oh, shut up Chris! Shut the fuck up you whiny little bitch. Nobody cares.
I also can’t stop the voice in my head, the voice that hates me with every ounce of my being. I’m a mess. I’m a Goddamn mess.
On the plus side, my paper is coming out well. When I can actually fight off everything and get my fingers on this keyboard, that’s when things are all right. I wish I was stronger. I wish and I wish.