Blogging seems like the best answer when all I can do is calculate how many pills I'd have to take to end it.
I have no idea what I'm even going to say, but right now, all I want is the pain, anxiety, and just everything to go away. I'm tired of being so afraid of people that I can't make new friends. I hate the fact that I'm in pain every minute of every day. I lie to my therapists and med manager and say that everything's great. Why? Because it's what they want to hear. I lie to everyone lately. "I'm fine," "doin' good," and "awesome" have no meaning to me anymore.
I saw one of my therapists today. I like her, but she's always pressuring me to answer the ever elusive "why?" I'll say that something is bothering me, she asks "why?" I answer "why" after "why" and when I can't answer anymore, it's like she doesn't believe me. I'm so sorry that I don't have the answer to everything. I'm not here because I do. I'm here to get the freaking answer!
Forty. I'd only need to take forty pills.
The truly sad part is that, when I think of committing suicide, I suddenly feel like a huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I'm just too afraid of what would happen if I fail. I'd be put inpatient again, for one. I hate those places. They do more damage than good. They tell you it's your fault that you're there instead of addressing the fact that you have an illness. They treat you like criminals. The one and only good inpatient place here isn't on my insurance.
Help me. Please.