desperation makes the air taste sour. i should be better. i have a good therapist. i have the job that i tied so much foolish societal significance to. i have a loving family, supportive friends, no right to feel this way. but i'm never better. just different colours of is hard. no – wait. work is easy. existing there is hard. sat at a desk being so visible and solid. the paranoia has redoubled. i thought the other day someone had spiked my drink. i don't know whether that was supposed to mean the entire water cooler or just my little plastic cup. our neighbour is redecorating his kitchen and left an old fridge in his garden. i had a panic attack over it. last time it was corners, now it's an old fridge, what the hell is wrong with me? i am frightened and bargaining all the time. sometimes people say that everyone hates them and i feel kind of envious. it can't be nice to be hated, but it must make suicide a whole lot easier. i know i can't kill myself. i know i cannot inflict my own sorrow on people who have done nothing but care. but i need is so much right now. or i need something. hope. or choice. and i play the silence over and over in my head. and the air shimmers like heat haze of pain.<br>every time i think that i will know what to do, how to break free, how to live without this, and i don't. always it comes back to the blade, to the pills, to the jump. my best friend is suffering too, her life on hold. i try to help her, but she gets angry, contrary, and we go in sad, aching circles for hours. this is my life at the moment. worry, work and circles. and i end up feeling as frustrated and helpless as i must have left more than one friend. more than one professional. i should be better than this. i should be better.


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