I keep thinking, "I'm barely holding on"

It's been a rough few days.

I'm all moved in, mostly. I like the place better than I thought I would, and I think the horrible apartment girl is gone, replaced by somebody with actual meat on her bones and a personality.

I spent Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday nights at Luke and Heather's. I had Tuesday and Wednesday off and just felt worse and worse until I literally had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying every second of the day. Whenever I was alone, I broke down. This is highly reminiscent of the Tomball days when everything was hell and I didn't know if I could stand it. So Thursday morning when I woke up miserable and burst into tears as soon as Heather left to take Reid to my parents, I knew this wasn't going to work. I called my PA and made an appointment for the afternoon, and I called in sick.

My PA's name is Carol Lynn. I LOVE Carol Lynn. She diagnosed my depression and has been treating it since 2003. She's mentioned several times that I should think about therapy. I have been thinking about therapy, as you all know. I cannot get over what happened in Tomball. I don't feel like I'm good at anything. Ever since the last time my supervisor sat with me at work and listened to me take calls and then told me everything I was doing wrong, I have dreaded going to work. As jobs go, it's not hard. But it's horrible when you're coming from the mental and emotional place that I'm coming from (sorry about the grammar).

My blood pressure was high, but I've lost ten pounds. The nurse said the blood pressure thing can be caused by stress. That fits. Carol Lynn came in and talked to me and I said I need something to help with anxiety and I need therapy, and she said, "Absolutely," so I am going to a psychiatrist to ge my meds straightened out (Wellbutrin is not working and I am taking it religiously) and I've got an appointment with a slightly batty-sounding therapist on Wednesday. Carol Lynn got me a scrip for Xanax, and it is the only way I'm keeping it together. I've got a doctor's note keeping me out of work until Thursday, and this way I can use my sick leave.

I needed this break. I feel so guilty for missing so much work, but I NEEDED this break. I am not going on vacation. I needed a break from talking to all the sick people and being recorded and feeling so tense that I could just be snapped like a piece of chalk.

All this has been marvelously compounded by getting my period after not having one since the end of April. I started to think that I might be pregnant, even though I haven't come near a penis since early April and hello, I've had a period since then. I can only suppose it must be the stress, GOOD GOD, THE STRESS.

Carol Lynn also said I need career counseling. She said I spent all those years working toward a goal, only to have it all flushed down the terlet, and now I'm all, what do I do next? What do I do now? And she's right. I don't know what to do now. I haven't done anything art-related since I was in Tomball, which is unprecedented for me. Friday, despite the Wellbutrin, despite the Xanax, despite the doctor's note that says it's okay for me not to go to work, despite the logical part of my super-fucked-up brain that told me over and over that depression is a serious illness and I am not being irresponsible and stupid for not going to work because I NEED THIS BREAK, the super-fucked-up part of my brain feels horribly HORRIBLY guilty and I lay there in bed and thought, "Would anybody really miss me if I weren't here? I'm completely worthless and I don't know why I'm even trying to get better because it's NEVER going to get better." And then the logical part of my brain told me to call my insurance and get the number for a therapist, because fuck me, do I ever need it.

I'm just not getting any better, and something's got to change.

So I'm going to therapy. And I'm taking the Xanax, because without it there's a rock in my stomach and it just gets bigger and bigger until my throat closes up and I want to drown myself.

So I guess you could say I'm suicidal. I'm not planning anything; no, really, I'm not, I promise. But I don't want to live, either, and really, is that any better? It seems just as bad to me.

Y'all, do me a favor, okay? Don't give me any suggestions about what I should do. I know what to do, and I'm taking care of it--the shrink, the therapist, the meds. I'm not going to kill myself because I could never do that to my parents, ever. Please don't tell me I shouldn't feel this way, because I do and I can't make it stop and reading things like that just make me feel worse. I am already frustrated because I can't fix this with the meds I'm on, much less by myself. I don't want therapy. I don't want to go talk to that batty old woman about the things that keep me up at night, about the things that tie me in knots during the day, about the horrible principal who killed whatever tiny bits of confidence I ever had in myself--who effectively destroyed me and I am saying that if I had a gun and she was in front of me and I could get away with it I would shoot her in the face. This hate is killing me. I don't want to live like this anymore, I can't live like this anymore, and something has to be done. If you have anything to say, tell me I'm doing the right thing, say something nice, give me a cyberhug, say a prayer for me, but please don't give me instructions. Please.