So… art therapy today was well-timed.

It’s not that I’m a danger to myself. But it’s not like I’m great. I’m suffering these peaks and valleys (mostly valleys) and the valleys are really deep… and all of it comes back to this thought:

“If my head would just stop, and I could go back to work, all manner of things would be better.”

Which translates to:

“It’s all my fault.”

I didn’t ask for this. It’s not my fault. My therapist(s) can tell me this. My family can tell me this. My friends can tell me this. I can tell myself. It doesn’t matter that the root of most of our worries is my stupid brain malfunction.

My art therapist asked me what colour my guilt is.

I think my guilt is the colour of everything, because it is all around me.

She gave me the “call me or go to the emergency room” speech today. Previously it’s been a stern word or two about calling her or calling my county’s crisis line.  Apparently, it isn’t emotionally healthy to compare the cost of living to the cost of death. I figured out that I’m presently worth more money to my family dead.

Money isn’t everything, however. I know that, logically, my thoughts about not wanting to exist are driven by chemical reactions and aren’t how I really feel. I know it’s depression talking, not ME talking. I’m here forever. No one can get rid of me.


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