They’re always there. Just behind the outside corners of my eyes. The tears. Waiting to spring forth like a bursting dam. Wanting to flow like river rapids. But I perceptually dam them up.
I always feel as if I would be ok if I died. I always feel just a little suicidal. I always have. Some days I think of how I could do it, and some days it’s just a passing thought. But if I were to answer the question, “what keeps you from killing yourself?” the answer would be, “Obligation,” long before it was ever, “Because I want to live.” I think I have always been ok with the thought of death. I’ve always thought it would be a relief. Not to feel badly anymore or perpetual exhaustion. Even if there’s nothing after this life, I think I’d be content with just not existing anymore. A final unsanctimonious, anticlimactic “poof” would be perfectly fine with me. I’d revel in that just as much as the thought of some glorious heaven. To rest forever would be just as ideal.
I only ate a piece of chicken and a serving of vegetables today. I had a terribly rough day at work where no one agreed with me, but I stand firm in my decisions. My husband said I make my own rules too often. He’s right. I’ve never been good with rules.
I miss my hypomania right now. I could use a dose.
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