For a moment I believed that I was getting better. I convinced myself that I could grow as a person and that would fix my life, but I seem to have forgotten I’m mentally ill. It’s a hard pill to swallow, that no matter how much you do, if you’re sick it just doesn’t go away.

It’s chronic. How awful. No matter how good you are you just never really heal. It’s a forever gaping wound and all you can do is just try and make sure it doesn’t get infected and maggot filled. But lately that’s where I think I am. I’m infested with maggots. There’s nothing good left inside.

I haven’t made anything in a really long time. I’m in a rut. I’ve tried drawing and painting and writing but it’s all a big mess. Everything turns out terribly. And it’s because there’s no heart behind it. There’s no desire left in my body. No desire to do anything or be anything. There’s something that drags me down to the floor and pins me down and tells me to stay there until I die.

I feel so completely empty and nothing I do is making it better. I have therapy in two days. I feel like I can’t wait. I’m afraid I won’t speak my mind again. I don’t know what to tell her. That I am unhappy? That everything is wrong? That I’m losing. I’m losing.

Every new day I care less and less. The people around me grow irritating. The man I used to be in love with. I might still be. But its less. It’s a muddier love. It feels like it did when he dumped me. I feel angry and tired of him. Now we’re just friends but not really. He says we are. I think he’s just too much of a coward to tell me to piss off, that he doesn’t care about me. I’m too much of a cunt to leave.

 I don’t want to be bitter. I just am. There’s too many bad things inside for much good to come out. Maybe that’s why my art is dead. There’s nothing good left to come out. But so many admirable artists make art from their pain. Mine isn’t anything but a jumble of words and some chicken scratch on paper.

I’ll tell her that I’m not well. That I’m depressed. That I need more help than the help that I can give to myself. That no number of positive affirmations can help a broken brain. That something is physically wrong. Something I can’t heal because I’m not a doctor. That I need someone to point me in the right direction. Not even toward happiness, just a way out of misery.

I was thinking about self pity today. I hate complaining because people make it out to be a pity party. They say get over it. But that doesn’t help. Do they think if I knew how to get over it I would still be miserable? And I never really talk to anyone about how badly I’m feeling. But maybe I should. But no one will listen. I wish I was dead every second I am conscious.

I feel like someone scraped out my insides and then set me down.

I can’t keep living if this is all life has to offer. But when someone offers me more I don’t believe it. The afterlife seems so unlikely. And if there is such a thing maybe I won’t be the one to enjoy it.

I need to tell her that I am unhappy where I am. That I can’t find strength to fight. That I hate the people I’m supposed to love through no fault of their own. That I am hurting the people around me because I can’t stand myself and that I don’t know how to stop. That the thought of doing the things I do everyday makes me physically ill. That I can’t take much more of this. That I’ve run out of patience. That I’ve run out of compassion. For myself and those around me.

I want to live a good life but I can’t even begin to imagine what that looks like. That I want more but don’t desire anything.

I don’t think I’m getting better and that terrifies me.